


The Con

by deciding



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Sweet Home Chicago, bughead - Freeform, bughead trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 85,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11810019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deciding/pseuds/deciding
Summary: con (verb): persuade someone to do or believe something, typically by use of a deception.Getting over her crush on her brother's best friend would be so much easier for Betty if he hadn't just moved to the same city as her.[AU]





	1. The Problem (Prologue)

A little seven-year-old. That’s how old I was when I met him. He and my brother became best friends over an afternoon of outdoor exploration down at Sweetwater River in the summer, and my brother just had to have him over at our house. I put on my best Cooper smile and was polite to him, didn’t laugh at his nickname when he revealed it, and told him it was nice to meet him. He’d been a pretty icky ten-year-old boy back then—my opinion at that point in my life being based on the cleanliness standards instilled in me by my mother—with holes in his shirt and dirt under his fingernails. Soon I was chasing him down the block because he had the audacity to pull my pigtails while I was watching _My Little Pony_ and then he got magic marker on my perfectly pressed sundress when he bumped into me, working on one of his obnoxious crown drawings. I already had one irritating older brother to deal with. Why, at seven years old, had I been blessed with another?

Because he and my brother were three years my senior, they believed they had the right to do whatever the fuck they wanted to me. There were pranks, name-calling, and all the other typical things boys at that cooties age could do to a little girl. I’ll admit I was just as bad. Everyone around town always praised me for being such a good little girl. But to them, I was annoying. Actually, that was an understatement. Everywhere they went, _I_ went. Everything they did, _I_ did. I was the little tag-along sister that brothers loathed. As my brother’s best friend, he took the opportunity as often as possible to tell me that he despised my presence and that I was a constant headache. Even at a young age he’d already been wise with his words.

A stupid fourteen-year-old. That’s how old I was when I started crushing on him. Up until that point, I never really thought of him as anything other than my brother’s best friend who was always around. Sure, he had stormy ocean eyes and the planes of his face were nothing but sharp angles, but I’d always known him, so he was just _him_. Conditions changed over the years. Whereas my brother went to the forefront to become a student athlete and class president, he sunk into the background and became a writer and cinephile. What didn’t change was his friendship with my brother; they stayed best friends. Since they spent so much of their time together, it meant that _we_ spent so much of our youth around each other, and we became friends. He had the whole brooding thing going for him at seventeen, which worked for a lot of girls. He was funny (sardonically so), attractive, and actually a lot more sensitive than he wanted to let on. I got to know him better and learned about his turbulent home life, the very reason why he’d built up walls around himself and what exactly he was protecting. I started to see him in a different light. I became one of those girls. I fell for him. I fell hard.

Although he remained best friends with my brother, I didn’t see much of him past fourteen. I moved an entire time zone away to fuel my own ambitions. Whenever I was home in our small town, I ignored him. Whenever he was at the house with my brother, I would hide away in my room or go for a long run. Because I had the kind of crush on him that meant I couldn’t utter a single word normally without overthinking it or mentally berating myself. He had some kind of power over my head and my heart merely by existing. Everything about him was intimidating to me. I should have stopped liking him then, on those long weekends and school breaks that I was home, because I saw how girls acted around him once he got his leather jacket that put him in a fortress of self. In spite of his sensitivity, or maybe because of it, he was like other teenage boys in high school: bad at managing feelings and relationships.

Things did get better around him, eventually, over the years. As my confidence grew in my life away from home, my confidence grew around him. I could send smiles his way and form complete sentences again as I was coming into my own. Relatively, things were once again normal. But we weren’t friends anymore like we’d grown up to be. Mostly because I’d gotten out of town, and stayed out, but also because I never did stop liking him.

I left Riverdale at fourteen to further my dream of becoming a ballet dancer. Ten years before I left home, I did my first plié and I’ve been hooked ever since. I’ve been blessed with the right body type and work ethic of a dancer. So when I nailed an audition to study at a highly regarded program in a big city, and when my parents realized that it was where I would excel (we were the Coopers, after all, it was expected that we could achieve success based on the sheer power of will alone), I went. Forget scholarships and Juilliard, I put myself on track to a dance career before I even knew what my classes for freshman year of high school would be.

I lived in dorms all through high school so I could attend the pre-professional conservatory program at the Joffrey Academy of Dance in Chicago. I never had anything less than a soloist’s role in all of the student showcases and galas, and I had the principal female role in the academy’s spring production all before graduating high school. I’d even heard whispers that I had been considered for the same role a year earlier but was ultimately passed over because I’d missed a few months of dancing due to injury. I worked at my craft with everything I had, because it was what I loved the most, so I thrived under the pressure of my life as a burgeoning young dancer. I moved up from the academy’s conservatory program to its trainee program, then graduated to the fully-funded studio company program where I was offered an apprentice position with the _actual_ company that the school was affiliated with, The Joffrey Ballet. It was beyond thrilling to see my dreams begin to come to fruition.

A running quip between my brother, his best friend, and me is that role reversal happened somewhere in our lives. Whereas I had followed them around as a little girl, it was almost like they were following me since I moved. My brother moved to Chicago (Evanston, to be precise) a year after me to attend college at Northwestern. His best friend opted for the University of Michigan, in order to be closer to his own younger sister. So when he wound up in Ann Arbor, we were all reunited by Midwestern geography. But he and my brother only saw each other once in a while as college students in different states (hell, my brother had lived literally less than 20 miles from me then, and we hardly ever saw each other during that four-year stretch of time), which meant that I rarely saw him. The three of us never had a full-fledged reunion despite them following me to the Midwest.

My first year in the corps de ballet with the company was their last year of college. I was getting used to progressive success with my dance life, but that year belonged to him and my brother. There’s a hierarchy in ballet that is rarely, if ever, broken. In big companies, you have to work your way up. Being a star as a student and an apprentice might get you into the corps, but then it’s a whole new battle. At that level, everyone is so good and so motivated. So _uniform_. Dancing in the corps is dancing with the group, highlighting the soloists and principals. Being part of the corps also gets comfortable. There are a lot of dancers that spend their entire careers in the corps without promotion—sometimes because they never seek it. That first year in the corps for me, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. It was a big enough deal for me to be part of the company because a dance career was what I had been working toward every day since I was a little girl. But not to be outdone, my brother graduated from college and went straight to business school to get his MBA. And his best friend? Well, he got a writing job as a digital content producer for a local news station in Toledo.

A concerned 21-year-old. That’s what I am now. It’s my third year with the company. In the last two years I’ve come to the realization that I don’t want to be a principal dancer. But I also don’t just want to be in the corps. I do want solo roles. I do want the spotlight on my pas de deux partner and me for a portion of the amazing shows our company puts on. This upcoming season, I have my biggest solo role so far. I’m still in the corps de ballet, but I have a part as big as one of the second soloists. So I shouldn’t be this concerned. You don’t choose a life in dance for the money. I’m fine with the fact that I have to live with my brother to maintain a healthy lifestyle and my sanity because it means that I get to keep living my dream. All in all, things in my life are pretty good. Maybe I should even be describing them as _good_ , without the prefacing word. But maybe I’m concerned because I’m smart enough to know that nothing gold can stay for too long. And there _is_ a problem looming on the horizon. Because that full-fledged reunion that never happened with my brother’s best friend? It’s about to happen.

After honing his skills as a staff member of the student-run literary magazine at Michigan, and after a few years working in new media after that, he came to the decision that graduate school was his next step and applied for MFA programs in Creative Writing. He got into a few of the programs he applied to and after deliberately weighing out his options, and his financial situation, he chose one. In Chicago. Of course.

So, yeah, I’m concerned about living in the same city— _in the same building_ —as him. It’s easy enough to brush my crush on him under the rug when I’m seven years removed from being fourteen and when I’ve rarely seen him in that time frame. And it’s not like I was holding out for a schoolgirl crush; I’ve dated and been in relationships with other guys. But all it took was seeing him in our hometown at my parents’ annual Fourth of July barbecue to remind me why I ever secretly had a thing for him. He’s even more of a catch now than he was as a teenager. It all came rushing back. I found myself ignoring him and hiding in my room all over again, really trying to avoid acting like a trainwreck around him.

It’s pathetic that I have trouble being around him because we have so much in common. We’re both on career paths that can be described as labors of love. We both know the grind of trying to make it, chasing the flickers of light at the end of the tunnel. We both know what it is to believe in a dream so much, for its taste to be on the tip of the tongue, but still just barely out of reach. Honestly, I have so many more similarities to him than he has with my brother at this point. I also see parts of myself in all the girls he’s ever paid attention to. I’m a great listener. I have girl-next-door charm. I actually appreciate his sense of sarcasm and wit that can be off-putting. I have a fucking dancer’s body. I’m even a natural blonde.

And Jughead Jones _still_ doesn’t like me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU AU AU.
> 
> I think there are a lot of ideas introduced by our dear narrator, Betty, in this prologue that spurn questions. Like, would Alice Cooper really let her daughter move away at fourteen? Was Jughead a Serpent as a teenager? Where does Archie fit in to all of this? Etc. My instinct is to keyboard smash and answer all these questions before they’re asked so that there’s no confusion. But I'm going to stop myself because I think that a lot of would-be questions are addressed in the first chapter.
> 
> [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/164210789110/the-con-extended-chapter-notes) on [tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/). Follow me, I’ll follow you, it will be the start of a beautiful friendship.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.


	2. The Neighborhood

Air conditioning wasn’t all great in humidity. On the blue line, the mixed smell of sweat and air conditioning on the last day of August was an unpleasant smell that couldn’t be escaped. In theory, it could be ignored, but it lingered and it was always there until the humid heat went away. It was something I’d gotten used to quickly though. The combination of Chicago’s effective public transit system and location of the apartment I shared with my brother made me a nearly daily “L” train rider. After a whole day of ballet rehearsal, it was very convenient that the distance between the station at Jefferson Park and the door to our building was a mere seven-minute bus ride plus four-minute walk away.

Home was on the second floor of a small five-unit building on Chicago’s northwest side in Norwood Park. My brother, Chic, was a Cooper boy wonder through and through—blond hair, blue-green eyes, perfectionist, and overachiever. He was a critical thinker: quick on his feet and always with a plan. He had even more potential than the small business owned and operated by our parents, _The Riverdale Register_ , our hometown’s local newspaper. That meant he had strong business acumen, a good fit for an S&P 500 firm downtown at just 24 years old. Chic didn’t have a corner office on the top floor, and there weren’t interns waiting to fill his coffee order, but he was an elevator ride up. It was the reason why we could afford to make rent comfortably on a two-bedroom apartment at the city’s edge.

Now granted, Norwood Park didn’t exactly have the same allure or price tag as Wicker Park or Lakeview, but living where we did meant my corps de ballet salary didn’t need to be stretched thin. Besides, I liked the simple _honesty_ of our neighborhood. It wasn’t a hipster community trying to be something it wasn’t, it wasn’t under process of gentrification, and it wasn’t millennials living beyond their means. It was a blue-collar neighborhood of the middle class, immigrants, and firemen. It was within city limits but bordered the sprawling forests of the suburbs. I liked that our local supermarket sold fresh pierogi and kolaczki. I liked the selection at the Italian deli and the Irish pub that always had Blackhawks games on under the hum of workweek drinking, from October through the playoffs in the spring.

Chic and I had lived in our apartment since I got out of the Joffrey Academy dorms. Our current digs had always felt like an upgrade to me. Sure, the dorms had been right downtown in The Loop, and at the time I’d appreciated the quick jog to class during the months of the stalking Chicago winter, but it hadn’t been that fun to live there when I was underage. Anyway, the heart of Chicago was in its neighborhoods, each with their own hidden spots, their history, their culture. I much preferred living in a real neighborhood over one surrounded by high-rise office buildings and the tourist fare of State Street.

I knew Chic could probably afford to move closer to work, closer to downtown, if he had a roommate on a similar career trajectory as him. I was sure he knew a handful of people who wouldn’t mind splitting that kind of rent and lifestyle with him. So I was lucky to have a brother who cared enough about his little sister to help support her career in the way he did. A lot of my friends in the corps weren’t so fortunate with their living situations.

As I turned my key in the lock of our door, unit 2B, the dance bag draped casually over my shoulder slipped to the bend of my arm on the inside of my elbow. I grimaced at the weight and straightened my arm, letting the bag drop to the ceramic tile that covered the floor of the entire apartment. It was the first week of rehearsal for the upcoming season and all of my limbs felt sore after a full day devoted to learning choreography for the first round of performances. With the conclusion of August, summer was just about over, but for dance season, it was dead and gone with auditions done and rehearsals ramping up.

I made my way inside the apartment quietly, propping the bag up against the sliding mirrored doors of the coat closet and sliding out of my Sanuks. Comfort was what mattered most to me after all day rehearsals kept me in a leotard and pointe shoes. There wasn’t much glamour to the daily ins and outs of ballet unless you counted a touch of waterproof mascara. When I came home, I was usually dressed in a version of the same outfit: cutoff tights and some sort of casual cotton dress.

My ears picked up the voices carrying on a conversation as my bare feet moved against the cool tile of the entryway, further into the apartment. Our entryway looked into the living room with the kitchen just off to the side, while the opposite direction, down a short hallway, led to the two bedrooms with the bathroom sandwiched in the corner in between them. I could tell the voices were coming from the kitchen but I couldn’t see past the stack of boxes—a stack that had grown since I’d last seen it—blocking the otherwise open sightlines of our apartment. It didn’t matter. I knew what those boxes meant. And I could recognize two of the voices any time, on any day of the year—my brother and his best friend. Jughead Jones had arrived in Chicago.

I should have prepared myself better. I should have taken the long way home to get myself calm. I did know, after all, when Jughead was going to show up. But what exactly was the appropriate way to prepare to greet a guy I’d been crushing on since the end of middle school?

All eyes fell on me once I stepped into the space between the kitchen and the living room area. They were all standing, leaning against the counters. My brother would be the first to speak. “Hey. You’re right on time.”

I kept walking in their direction. Jughead pushed off from the counter and met me halfway, pulling me into a stiff hug I hadn’t been expecting. If I’d known, I probably would have showered at the studio before going home. I had dried sweat in my hair and I probably smelled like the L, too. He had that uniquely Jughead scent that was something familiar, reminding me of childhood and milkshakes from Pop’s, of teenage dreams and _him_ ; sandalwood and nicotine mixed with aftershave.

“Betts,” he greeted when we both stepped back.

“Juggie.”

He’d gone for the single syllable version of my nickname so I’d gone for the shorter form of his. The corners of his mouth upturned a little bit. It was an exclusive club who got to call him that. At least I was in it. A small victory.

“You okay?” Jughead asked. “You look tired.”

I quickly went from feeling bad that I potentially smelled like the piss and vinegar of the L to wanting to kick him in the shin. It was one thing for him to not notice me. It was another for him to say, in kinder terms, that I looked like shit. That was so much worse.

“We can’t all get by on wit and satire like you,” I replied sarcastically (but secretly only half-sarcastically). “I was at rehearsal.”

He looked good. Oh, Lord, did he look good.

I remembered Chic saying something about a flight arriving at O’Hare, but Jughead sure didn’t look worn from the air travel. His dark wash jeans and plaid button-down were wrinkled, because Jughead’s clothes were always wrinkled, but he didn’t look at all uncomfortable. The shirt was a light woven cotton, I presumed because we were at season’s end and it was much too hot and humid outside for his usual flannel. Still, the wool gray beanie on his head, folded over at the edges and cut into triangles to resemble a crown, the same one he’d worn the day I met him, was a contradiction to the current Illinois weather pattern. His dark hair was crushed underneath the hat but an unruly tendril curled over an eyebrow and toward his temple. His eyes kept their deep blue mystery under the track lights of the kitchen, resembling a darkened sky in the midst of thunderstorm.

I moved away from Jughead and into a warmer, more casual hug with another familiar face. She was reminiscent of Jughead, minus the sandalwood and tall stature, and her raven hair cut into a bob with sharp bangs cut straight across her forehead.

“JB, hi,” I said. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

Jellybean, or JB, as she’d gone by in recent years, was Jughead’s kid sister. She was a few years younger than me, just out of high school. The years between us meant we’d never really been friends but she was someone I’d always known since our brothers had been inseparable. She’d been in kindergarten when Jughead and Chic met. But whereas Chic and I had needed time to get past our sibling rivalry and gained appreciation for each other slowly over time, Jughead had always been protective of his sister. I didn’t understand until I was twelve, when I learned Jellybean and their mom had skipped town to Toledo, leaving Jughead and their dad behind in Riverdale, just how rocky things had been for the Joneses.

“Just for the weekend,” Jellybean answered me. “I’ll be on a plane back to Cincinnati on Sunday night.”

“Wait, Cincinnati?” I pursed my lips together. “Oh, JB! Are you starting college there?”

It had been a while since the last time I’d seen Jughead’s sister. The last time I’d seen him was at my parents’ Fourth of July barbecue. I’d been so busy ogling him from afar and avoiding being around him that I hadn’t even thought to ask him about her academic future with their financial situation.

“Well, technically I have to take a bus from the airport to the campus. I’m going to Miami of Ohio.” Jellybean clarified. “And classes started this week already. I’m on a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday-only schedule. Four day weekend every weekend! Jug helped me pick my classes.”

“That’s really exciting!” I clasped my hands together with genuine enthusiasm. “Have you picked a major already or are you just testing the waters?”

“Sociology,” Jellybean returned. “But I have like _one_ sociology class since it’s the first semester of freshman year. I should have just gone to community college and transferred in two years, honestly. But Mom and Jug kept insisting otherwise.”

Jughead huffed and muttered something under his breath that I didn’t understand.

“So are you actually here for a visit, to enjoy your weekend,” I wondered, still speaking to Jellybean, “or has your brother just burdened you with helping him arrange his new digs?”

“More of the second one, definitely,” Jellybean laughed. “I’m here to make sure his apartment doesn’t become fully outfitted in only the black items from the IKEA catalog. I’ll try to make sure there’s some semblance of color.”

I laughed along but Jellybean wasn’t done yet, a mischievous look in her blue eyes.

“Also, I’m pretty sure he shelled out the money for a plane ticket so he wouldn’t have to fly alone,” Jellybean grinned. “He’s all tough exterior, wants to seek out adventure in the big city, yet nothing but a little boy in his security beanie while cruising at altitude over Indiana.”

“JB!” Jughead groaned.

“What? Come on, _Juggie_.” Jellybean mocked him. “It’s just the Coopers. It’s _Betty_. It’s not like they don’t know you.”

Funny, by looking at him, I hadn’t thought he was disheveled or unnerved in any way from the trip. But she was right. I did know Jughead very well from over the years. I knew he hadn’t even been on a plane until after his sophomore year of college, when he’d had a six-week summer internship in California. I knew he had a fear of heights. One time, the same year he met Chic, he’d climbed to the top of the monkey bars on an empty playground and sat there reading for hours. At first it was because it was the only quiet spot he could find, but in the end, he stayed up there because he was scared once he saw the distance to the ground. The only exception to his fear had been his boyhood tree house; solid wood and made just for him, a fortress fit for a prince with a crowned hat on his head.

“JB, for saying that, I’m not buying anything for the apartment with a color that looks like it could’ve been refracted through a prism,” Jughead chided his sister. “Besides, it’s not _just_ the Coopers.”

Jughead’s words drew attention to the only other person in the room who hadn’t gotten a word in yet. I’d meant to greet him when I made my presence known but the Jones siblings had taken over the room very quickly.

“Hi, Archie,” I said with a smile.

“Hey, Betty.”

Archie Andrews was someone I ran into very infrequently. Back in Riverdale, his family had lived across the street from mine since the time we had been in diapers. We were the same age so we probably would have been in the same classes in elementary school had it not been for his parents splitting up. His family moved to the Chicago area to see if starting over somewhere else would make things better, but it wasn’t long before his dad, Fred, was back in Riverdale, alone and divorced. He sold their house and moved into a condo closer to the town square.

Fred owned a construction company and Jughead’s dad, FP, worked with him when we were all younger. Fred and FP had been friends and, as luck would have it, their sons became friends. I remembered seeing Archie hanging around with Jughead when he came to visit Fred. Their friendship was different than the infamous Cooper and Jones duo, and not just because Jughead was a few years older. The camaraderie was more in the vein of brotherhood than close friendship. Cooper and Jones were best friends, yin and yang, light and dark, but _never_ the same. The Andrews had always treated Jughead like an extension of their family.

“Nice to see you again,” I told Archie.

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” Archie nodded and then framed his next statement as a question, alluding to my earlier retort to Jughead when I’d first come in. “What kind of rehearsal were you at?”

Archie had preceded all of us in Chicago, even me, the early adopter. I’d run into him around town a few times over the years, but it was a big enough city that our paths rarely crossed. I’d never gotten to know him in Riverdale since he was so young when he moved away, and even when he would visit, I only knew of him because of Jughead. When Archie and I crossed paths in Chicago it was always a casual hello but nothing like friends catching up. So we didn’t really know anything about each other’s current lives.

“I wa—”

“She’s a ballerina,” Jughead interrupted, cutting me off. “So you can forget about it. She wouldn’t be into an uncoordinated doofus like you.”

I’d explained to Jughead on more than one occasion that I wasn’t actually a ballerina. Even if I were to work my way to a soloist, I still wouldn’t be. I would never actually be a ballerina. That term was used selectively and specifically in the ballet business. The only _real_ ballerinas were internationally acclaimed principal dancers. For someone who invested so much of his time in words and exactly what they meant, Jughead sure didn’t pay attention to the terms I’d defined for him over the years. Maybe it was just because he never paid enough attention to me to care.

But I didn’t correct Jughead this time. I was more distracted by his implication that Archie might want to hit on me. It wasn’t often he did it, since I hesitated to be around him, but it always bummed me out when Jughead went into protective older brother mode for me, like Jellybean and I were the same to him. The thought of him using some machismo _I swear to God, I’ll end you_ defense of my honor only appealed to me in the context of jealousy. Except Jughead didn’t have machismo tendencies. He certainly wasn’t jealous of anyone hitting on me, either. And I didn’t care about his friends hitting on me. I wanted _him_ to hit on me.

Archie was as unfazed by the comment as I was. So instead of telling Jughead he was clueless for someone so smart, and instead of throwing myself at him, I posed a question. “Why are all your boxes still here? I would like to be able to sit on the couch and not have to look over and see all your crap, you know.”

“That’s great, Betts.” Jughead clapped a hand on my shoulder and smirked. “Care to get a head start? You can have first dibs on which box to carry.”

“Oh, _ha ha_ ,” I said dryly. “There’s enough testosterone in this room to power a lamp. I’m not carrying a single box.”

I bit my tongue to keep myself from saying that if he needed help unpacking and organizing, _that_ might be something I’d be inclined to do. Organization was one of my strengths but spending time alone with Jughead was not.

Jughead shrugged. “Why do you think I asked Archie to come over here? Reinforcements.”

“Whatever.” I shook my head with intent. I took a half step in the direction of my room before quickly stopping and speaking again, pointing an accusatory finger in Jughead’s general direction. “I want to see a welcoming living room when I come back out here, not one made of cardboard.”

I didn’t say anything else as I headed down the short hallway that led to the bathroom and my bedroom. I waited until I was safely in the confines of my room to take a deep breath and think about our banter. I thought I’d been pretty bold around him, throwing out sarcastic comments and feigning annoyance over his belongings cramping the apartment. I also thought it best to get away from Jughead before I made a fool of myself. There would be plenty of time for that later. After all, he was moving into the studio suite in the basement of our building.

Back in July, at the Cooper barbecue on Independence Day, Jughead confirmed he would be starting his Writing MFA program at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in the fall. Chic had told me about Jughead’s acceptance to SAIC last spring, and that he’d paid the deposit to hold his spot, but it didn’t really, truly settle with me that he’d be invading our lives until they were talking about scouting out places for him to live and the ins and outs of the Chicago Transit Authority as they ate their grilled hot dogs.

A month and a half ago I had no idea where Jughead would be living in Chicago and I hadn’t bothered to ask Chic about it. I knew Jughead had been back and forth to Toledo a few times, planning his move, but Archie had always accommodated him. He saw Chic but I didn’t see him. I figured the further I stayed away from Jughead, the better. It was bad enough that I was 21 years old with a renewed crush on my brother’s best friend. There was no reason for me to embarrass myself by becoming a blubbering idiot around him and letting him know.

Four weeks ago, when I saw the _For Rent_ sign go up on a stake in the lawn of our building, I knew trouble was on the horizon. When I overheard a speakerphone conversation with Chic writing down Jughead’s information for a credit check and mentioning that he could e-sign a document, I knew the trouble had come nearer, rattling at the gates. Two weeks ago, before rehearsal started, when I had been spending a lot of time lounging in the living room, my brother came home and told me the horrifying news. The tiny studio apartment in the basement, unit G (‘G’ for garden, though there was no garden view at all), would be vacated by one of our wacky offbeat neighbors by the morning of August 31st. By the afternoon, Jughead was free to move his stuff in a whole day before he would officially be the new lessee.

I could only imagine the universe was laughing at me for liking my brother’s best friend. I knew the upcoming fall season wasn’t going to be an old routine; nothing was going to be the same. Jughead and Chic didn’t take the best friends thing lightly. If Jughead had a brotherhood with Archie, then he had a bromance with Chic. They enjoyed hanging out together in their mid-20’s just as much as they did when they were twelve. Living in the same apartment building separated by only a few flights of stairs from each other would, in essence, be like living as roommates. I knew whenever Jughead was home there was a strong likelihood he’d be at our place. There would be no escaping him.

It was too bad for me that eccentric old Mrs. Walewski had moved out of the garden apartment and that Norwood Park was such a convenient place for Jughead to reside. Both SAIC and The Art Institute of Chicago itself were in The Loop, just outside Millennium Park. If Chic and I lived where we did and went to work in The Loop every day, then it made perfect sense that Jughead could make the trek easily, too. It took 40 minutes tops by transit and probably less than half of that if he had his motorcycle. Getting a cheap studio apartment at the edge of the city, where he could focus his energy on writing in solace at four in the morning when he needed to, was a much better option than getting a roommate or the absurd cost of student housing facilities for any of the schools that were downtown. The cost of tuition for SAIC was astronomical enough as it was. He had every reason to agree to terms on his lease, never mind my silly little feelings for him. So boxes showed up to our place before his arrival. It wasn’t a mountain of boxes, because Jughead Jones was not the kind of person who had an abundance of stuff, but there were enough to be hampering our living room.

I was sure with his reinforcements—as he’d called Archie, though I suspected Chic was included as well—Jughead could get everything moved into his new place downstairs in the time it would take me to shower and regain some composure in my room. I knew how pathetic it was. I was an adult whose entire career was based on performing for and appealing to an audience. That was my comfort zone. I embodied a different side of myself when I was on stage; I got lost in it. I’d always gone after what I believed in and I worked hard to get what I wanted in ballet. But some guy from Riverdale whom I’d known since childhood? Forget it. I crumbled.

His presence made it so that I couldn’t even be comfortable in my own home after I showered. That’s how pathetic I was. Once I’d showered, I didn’t even feel right putting on an old t-shirt and athletic shorts like I usually did after a long day of rehearsal. I actually put on a racerback tank and yoga pants, and I blow-dried my hair. I even considered reapplying mascara to my blonde lashes again. I only decided against it because I knew I’d be off to bed in a couple of hours.

Sure enough, the living room was back to normal when I returned to it. There was Chinese takeout on the coffee table. Everyone was eating and an episode of _Parks and Recreation_ was on the television screen. It was a show my brother and I were working through on my Netflix account. Jellybean and Chic were sitting beside each other on the loveseat, with Jellybean having claimed that she’d had enough close quarters with her brother for one day after their fearful plane ride. Jughead and Archie were on opposite ends of the couch, which only left the middle for me. So I sat down there, right next to Jughead. I swear I was the best damn smelling thing in the whole place but he didn’t even notice. He barely even glanced my way before returning his gaze to the television.

Archie noticed. He even offered to open the one remaining bottle of beer on the coffee table for me while I looked through the small takeout boxes. He’d placed the sweating bottle of Goose Island IPA in my hand by the time I found the sesame chicken my brother had kindly ordered for me.

“Well aren’t you helpful,” I told Archie.

He shrugged, turning his head from the TV screen to send a bona fide smile my way. “I try.”

He looked at me with puppy dog brown eyes and his wide smile showed off a set of perfectly aligned pearly whites. There was a scar in between his eyebrows that gave him some character beyond his All-American appeal. He had an athletic build he wasn’t shy about showing off in a gym muscle tee that was somehow both loose and form fitting at the same time. The five o’clock shadow on his face suited him. Hell, even his shock of red hair suited him. Archie was cute in a very obvious way. It was much different than Jughead’s handsomeness with his high cheekbones and sharp jawline and perfect angle of his nose.

Conversations were minimal while we watched the comedy. Occasionally, when something was really funny, we would join together in laughter or someone would slurp while they took a sip of their drink. I was well aware of Jughead’s presence beside me, one ankle propped up on the knee of his other leg, a bottle of water in his hand rather than a beer. I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye more than a few times and each time it was the same: he was slumped against the couch, head tilted back, eyes focused on the screen. He looked like he could have sat still for hours. It wasn’t what I would have expected from him. I knew his top choices for viewing pleasure were all of the Tarantino variety.

Three episodes of _Parks and Recreation_ later, the only remains of food were fortune cookie crumbs, and all the bottles of beer (and water) were empty. Chic had actually retired to his room three quarters of the way through the second episode because there was still one day left in the workweek, Friday, and he had an early conference call the next morning. As a result, Jellybean had made herself right at home, sprawled out on the loveseat with her legs spilling over the edge. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her eyes were closed when her older brother stood up.

Jughead spoke over me to Archie. “I’m gonna go pass out downstairs. It’s still okay if Jelly stays at your mom’s tonight, right?”

“Yeah, man,” Archie responded. “It’s cool.”

I’d learned through the passing of the minimal group conversation, while we were all watching TV, that Archie’s mom lived in the nearby suburb of Morton Grove. He didn’t live there anymore, but it was where Archie had grown up when he left Riverdale. It was where Jughead had stayed during his visits the over the last few months. Jughead had an apartment now, and a memory foam mattress topper on the floor that he could sleep on until the trip to IKEA, but nothing exactly suitable to accommodate his sister. Chic and I didn’t mind if Jellybean wanted to crash with us, but we didn’t have much more to offer her than the couch she’d already taken to snoozing on.

“All right.” I could tell with my peripheral vision that Jughead yawned and stretched as he spoke, adjusting the beanie on his head. “See you tomorrow.”

“See ya,” Archie said casually.

“Oh.” Jughead was halfway to the front door when he stopped in his tracks, Doc Martens squeaking against the tiles. “Good night, Betty.”

I blinked at the TV. “Night.”

It wasn’t until I heard the click of the door shut behind him that I let a silent sigh escape my lips. Of course it _would_ have been a nice thought to know he wanted me to have a good night. But that was undercut by the fact that I was apparently so invisible to Jughead that he _barely_ even remembered to say anything to me before he left. I was as much in the background to him as I was when I performed with the corps de ballet. He was clueless to my feelings, which were so blatantly unrequited, and I was the most pathetic girl I knew.

“Hey, Betty?” Beside me, Archie spoke my name like a question.

I grunted in response. “Hmm?”

“How long have you liked Jughead?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time I said that I wasn't going to jump the gun and answer unanswered questions because the first chapter would take care of it. Um. Have I actually just sprinkled more questions into the mix? Oops.
> 
> Maybe it’s because I know this story so well, but I feel like things need to be revealed and questions about the characters need to be answered at certain, specific points in the story (isn't that what’s supposed to happen in a good story in general?) (not that I’m saying this is a good story). So I’ll just stay tight-lipped. All in good time.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/) where you can view the [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/164517041095/the-con-extended-chapter-notes) if you so please.
> 
> I am so happy and grateful for all of the kudos and comments received on the prologue. Thank you so much! I can’t even explain how awesome it feels when I get your feedback. You guys are the best! Um. Can we please do that again? That was so much fun.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	3. The Plan

My head whipped to the side so fast to look at Archie that I was surprised I didn’t give myself whiplash. Had I misheard him? Did I put so much sweet and sour sauce on the sesame chicken I ate that the MSG had deluded me? _Did he really just say that?_

“What?” My question was really a request for him to say it again.

There was no way in hell he could have just said what I thought he did. Was there?

“You heard me.” The smile on Archie’s face was unabashed. “How long have you liked Juggie?”

Although I knew that Archie and Jughead were old friends, it still sounded strange to hear someone who was not Chic or Jellybean or myself refer to the man of the hour as ‘Juggie’ (there had even been a time when only I called him that, because I’d been the one to come up with it, before it caught on with our siblings). I’d known Jughead since before he was affectionately ‘Juggie’. Actually, I’d known him long enough to know he was _Forsythe_. But it didn’t change Archie’s question. And with it being clear that I didn’t just imagine the question, my heart jumped up to my throat. I had a ton of questions of my own. Like, first of all, was I really that obvious? The impromptu hangout because of Jughead’s move was the first time since the sandbox that I’d spent any significant time with Archie and he was already making assumptions— _correct assumptions_ —about my stupid feelings.

“What?” I repeated, trying my best to sound confused.

Maybe I could play it off. Maybe it was just a lucky guess on Archie’s part. He didn’t exactly strike me as a mastermind who picked up on subtleties. He’d laughed the least while we were watching TV, as if some of the laugh track-less humor had gone over his head.

“Come on, Betty,” Archie scoffed. He actually scoffed. “I can see right through you.”

 _Really?_ Well, maybe the real issue was a lack of subtlety on my part. It was too late for me to have any luck on the whole ‘playing it off’ thing. Archie stared at me, waiting for me to come clean. Even though there was a ton of space on the couch on my other side, the side Jughead had vacated when he left, I felt completely cornered. I’d been silent about my long lasting yet renewed crush on Jughead for so long and suddenly his friend, his brother-but-not-brother, was trying to get me to spit it out.

Jughead’s move to Chicago was going to ruin my life. If he could have just gone to grad school in any of the other handful of cities where he’d gotten accepted—Boston, LA, Manhattan, or even back to the familiarity of Ann Arbor—I would be so much better off. But no, he had to pick the juxtaposition, the writing program at the art school. He had to pick Chicago. Chicago with Chic and Archie and an hour plane ride to Cincinnati where Jellybean had just started college. Because of course. _Of course._

I was a strong girl. I knew I was because ballet was tough, both physically and mentally. It wasn’t for the faint of heart or for those with a low tolerance for pain. I was also a realistic girl. I’d accepted my current place at Joffrey, I’d accepted my well-mannered tendencies ingrained in me by being Alice Cooper’s daughter, and I’d accepted the darkness in the corner of my mind for that same reason. So Jughead? I’d accepted the nothing between us, too. Given time, my crush would finally fade away _for good_. I was sure of it. But not if I had to see him every single day.

My answer was on the tip of my tongue and I looked away from Archie, embarrassed. My gaze landed on Jellybean, who was still sprawled out on the loveseat. The rise and fall of her chest was steady. But the fact that she was just a few strides away kept me from making my confession immediately.

I stammered instead. “Um…uh…what?”

“ _Denial_ ain’t just a river in Egypt,” Archie scolded me. “No point in it.”

Okay, he was definitely on to me. I glanced at Jellybean again. She hadn’t moved and didn’t seem to be conscious.

“She’s asleep, Betty. Trust me.” Archie stood and snapped his fingers a few inches above Jellybean’s face to no reaction. I gave him a pointed look and he shrugged. “This isn’t the first time ever that she and Jug have stayed with my family, you know. Their casa is my casa. Wait…”

I sighed. Was I really about to trust that he knew when Jellybean was passed out _and_ entrust details of my secret crush to someone who’d used an Egypt idiom followed by a very simple one that he couldn’t even say with all of the Spanish words or in the right succession?

Archie sat back down and put his feet up on the coffee table like he owned the place. He threaded his fingers together over his abdomen. “Now, why don’t you just tell me about Jughead so we can do something about it?”

What exactly, in God’s holy name, could Archie Andrews do about ‘it’? It was bad enough that I’d had a crush on the same guy for so many years even after I’d dated other guys. Now Archie knew? And he thought he could help me somehow? _Well, shit._

“Fourteen,” I murmured through gritted teeth.

Archie cupped his hand around his ear in my direction overenthusiastically and came back at me in a singsong voice, “I can’t hear you.”

I pressed the pads of each of my fingers against my thumbs, a habit born out of nervousness and anxiousness. I knew I liked Jughead. I’d known for years. But I’d never, ever admitted it out loud or told anyone before. I thought I might choke on my own words as I repeated louder, “Since I was fourteen.”

The look Archie gave me was one that I couldn’t quite place and describe in a single word. I thought it was confusion and horror and sympathy all rolled into one. “You’ve got to be kidding me. _Seriously?_ ”

My eyes narrowed. He was going to take advantage of my admission to my pathetic crush and then make fun of me when I did? My reputation preceded me—it was true that I was a nice girl—but in that moment I wanted to rip his head off and put it back on backwards.

“It’s a good thing that you’re cute. Because otherwise—”

“Oh, yeah, you’ve totally got me shook, Betty,” Archie interrupted me with a lopsided smirk, totally smug with himself. “You’d kill me, I’m sure.”

“I really don’t appreciate you making fun of me after pretty much forcing a confession out of me. Is that what you think, Archie? That I’m one of those crazy girls who is so completely out of touch with reality?” I sighed bitterly and continued with some self-deprecating mocking of myself, “Oh, ha ha, there’s Jughead’s best friend’s little sister that’s totally pining over him like a teenage girl – what a loser.”

“I never said that,” Archie shook his head. “And I _don’t_ think that. I know we don’t know each other very well but from what I can tell, you seem like an awesome chick. You’re pretty, Betty, that’s obvious—hot, even, it probably depends on the day. I bet you’re smart, too. You could do so much better than a stupid idiot like Jughead Jones. You could be with somebody like…like…”

Like who?

“…like me.”

 _Excuse_ me? Like _who_?

“Oh,” I jeered and rolled my eyes, “so you’re _not_ a _‘stupid idiot’_?”

“Hey now, I figured out in a couple of hours that you’ve had a crush on Jug for years— _years_ —didn’t I?” Archie pointed out. “I’d say I’m not too shabby. And not to toot my own horn but…chicks kinda dig me.”

“Archie, listen to me clearly, I am not dating you.” I moved down the couch, expanding the space between us. “Just because you pay me a few compliments—”

He interrupted me again, “Will you just hear me out for a couple of minutes?”

So far Archie had suggested that I was potentially hot but dumb for liking Jughead and that I should date him instead because he was a ladies man. No way was I going to cut him any slack if he really did have a point to get across.

“One. You have one minute,” I snapped.

“Look, it’s not like you’d really be dating me or be with me or whatever,” he began. “It’s just…see, you’re trying too hard.”

“I’m offended,” I mumbled, already full of regret for even granting him a minute to waste. “Trying too hard at what?”

“To impress Jughead,” Archie said it like it should’ve already been obvious to me. “Basic human instinct is that we’re attracted to the people who don’t try too hard.”

Great, a lesson on _basic human instinct_ from Archie. How could he possibly be right? Why was I even listening to him? If anything, I thought I wasn’t trying hard enough. I could be trying way harder. It wasn’t like I’d been throwing myself at Jughead. Yes, I had a crush on him and secretly thought we could be good together because of the things we had in common _and_ because of our stark differences. But I didn’t act on it. I was already pathetic. I didn’t want to be desperate, too.

“And we like people who seem out of reach, who are already spoken for,” Archie continued, gesturing between our bodies. “We always seem to fall for the person who is clearly into someone else.”

“But he’s…he’s Jughead. I don’t think any of his instincts are exactly _basic_.” I meant it more as observation rather than putting Jughead on a pedestal.

One of Jughead’s most appealing qualities was his nonconformity. It wasn’t that he was trying to be different; he just wasn’t trying to be like everyone else. I was of the mind that that extended to how he thought about relationships.

“Wow, you are giving him way too much credit,” Archie told me along with the shake of his head. “Believe me, jealousy is a strong force that gets the best of us. _Even_ Jughead.”

So I’d given Archie his minute. His puppy dog eyes were sparkling like he’d just given me some exclusive gospel in the vein of a door-to-door salesman. But I wasn’t sure if I was buying what he was selling. Wait, what exactly _was_ he selling?

“What’s your proposition?” I wondered.

“Forget about him, technically speaking,” Archie answered. “All it’s gonna take for him to notice you, if he hasn’t already, is shifting your focus somewhere else. And if the person you’re paying attention to is someone who’s in his life that he can’t avoid—like me—you’re gonna have him eating out of the palm of your hand.”

I sighed and folded my arms over my chest. “My life isn’t a game, Archie.”

“Isn’t it? Shouldn’t it be?” Archie shifted on the couch and scratched at an itch on the scar between his eyebrows. “What if Jug just needs a little push?”

My head was spinning then. I took a moment to seriously consider what Archie proposed—and I knew that doing so was ridiculous. _But._ Could it be that easy? I definitely didn’t expect Jughead to tear me away from one of his friends and confess that he was madly in love with me. Was it possible though that my spending time with one of his friends would make him reexamine the way he saw me? Did I really stand a chance?

“If…if I were to agree to this…” I could barely believe the words coming out of my mouth. “What would be in it for you?”

“Oh, I can think of a few things.” The smirk on Archie’s face had something bad written all over it.

I cringed. “When I said earlier that I’m not going to date you, I didn’t mean that as an alternative I’m going to sleep with you to get another guy’s attention. That’s sick.”

“I’m such a good cuddler after though,” Archie wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh my God.” I put my palm to my forehead and shook my head at myself. “I can’t believe I just had that conversation with you like it was rational.”

“Come on, I’m _kidding_ ,” he moved down the couch so he was sitting beside me again, facing me. He took my elbow and my hand fell from my face. “Obviously I don’t actually expect you to sleep with me. I want to help.”

“If you think that this is some sort of game we’re going to play,” I replied, “then I don’t believe you when you say you just want to help.”

“It wouldn’t be as much a game as much as it would be a…a…a con,” Archie found the right word and then added, “and besides, can’t I just be a nice guy trying to help?”

“No,” I said blatantly. “A proposition such as yours has to have some _quid pro quo_ laced in it somewhere.”

“Quid _what_ now? I don’t know even know what that means.” Archie let go of my arm and put both his palms against the couch cushion and leaned back in place, against the empty air. The playful expression left his face. “Look, Betty, I really do want to help. My girlfriend and I broke up this summer and I’m still processing it. I feel like I need to be doing more than just writing breakup songs. I could use a project.”

I had no idea that Archie Andrews had such a heavy heart.

  


\-----

  


Three eggs were yellowed and lightly simmering on the frying pan when I heard the knock at the door. It was just past seven in the morning, a few hours before I had to be at the dance studio. There were two parts to each dance production during the ballet season: rehearsal weeks and performance weeks. During rehearsal weeks, all the dancers in the company—principals, soloists, corps members, and apprentices alike—participated in about an hour of ballet class before a break for lunch and then rehearsal. Rehearsal times were staggered and divided up according to dance scene. But class was always at the same time every morning.

I hadn’t been expecting anybody. Once I was ready to face the day, breakfast was always the last part of my morning routine before I left and it usually went by quietly. I turned the stove off before walking the distance to the front door. The figure I saw in the peephole was a head tilted down, eyes downcast to the screen of a cellphone, familiar gray beanie over raven hair. I unlocked the door and turned the doorknob, holding the door slightly ajar.

“Jughead,” I greeted my visitor by name. “What are you doing here?”

He frowned. “That’s not a very warm and fuzzy Cooper greeting, Betty.”

I ignored his feign of disapproval and repeated, “What are you doing here?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Jughead still didn’t answer my question.

Without another word, I stepped back and held the door wide open for him. My next action was purposefully sardonic—just his style—holding my free arm out in the air and curtseying as he stepped through the threshold. Just because we were new neighbors and sort of friends, and just because I knew I could expect him to invade my apartment to hang out with Chic regularly, it didn’t mean I was cool with him just showing up unannounced in the morning. 

I liked the stillness of the morning. I liked the silence as I ate my breakfast, with my mind clear. I liked to reflect on my recent accomplishments in ballet—whether it was the day before or the week that had passed by—and what I hoped to accomplish going forward. Weekday mornings in the apartment were _mine_. 

Jughead followed me into the kitchen as I went back to my eggs. He stood against the counter where the sink was, as he had done when I first saw him the evening before. I hoped he didn’t notice that I was biting the inside of my lip as I scooped my scrambled eggs onto the plate I’d set beside the stove minutes before. It was early but he looked good, like always, eyes sapphire in the morning light and the perfect spattering of moles along his jaw and cheeks accenting olive summer skin.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. Why?”

He gestured at my plate with his free hand.

“Oh,” I laughed. “These are all for me.”

With the push of a button, I turned off the exhaust fan above the stove and then stepped closer to him so I could slide open the drawer adjacent to the sink and pull out a fork, dumping it on the plate. I grabbed a glass from the drying rack next to the sink and walked my meal to the small table pushed against the back wall in the space between the kitchen and living room. My last stop before pulling out the chair was to the refrigerator for ketchup and the carton of apple juice.

“A girl who eats.” Jughead was still standing in the same spot awkwardly. “I like that.”

_If only you liked me._

For the autumn program, _Giselle_ , a very popular classical romantic ballet, would be staged by the Joffrey for the very first time, and I had made the first cast. I would be in one scene—the Peasant pas de deux, a common interpolation piece for big companies that did productions of _Giselle_. I would be dancing with my pas de deux partner, Trev Brown, for the better part of nine minutes, but we also had two variations each within that time frame. Since it would be my first time in a soloist’s role for the company, I had a lot to perfect over the next several weeks.

Rehearsal weeks were especially taxing on a dancer’s body. The energy expenditure was enormous because we were on our feet and dancing nearly continuously for six hours a day Monday through Friday. In the early goings though, when we were still getting the choreography down pat, it was usually more like eight hours. Years of preparation helped us adapt to it, but it was basically an all-day workout. I wouldn’t recommend a low calorie diet to anyone planning on doing the same volume of dance unless their intention was to get lightheaded and possibly pass out around the third hour. I ate healthy, but I ate a lot: a protein-heavy breakfast, a lighter lunch, and a hearty dinner.

The first thing Jughead had said when I opened the door was a joke about my greeting not being very Cooper-esque. But it was the Cooper in me that made me immediately feel guilty that I’d sat down to have my breakfast while he was just left to stand there to smell it. That had to be especially grating for someone like Jughead who had a bottomless pit of a stomach and was perpetually hungry.

“Juggie, I…” My hand hovered over the bottle of ketchup. “I’m sorry, I can’t offer to cook you any eggs. I wasn’t expecting you and I have to get to the Loop soon.”

“It’s okay.” Jughead shook his head.

“Unless…you want some of these eggs?” I tried again, gesturing at the plate in front of me. “We can split them.”

“Betty, stop. _Eat_.” Jughead stressed the last verb. “I don’t want to be held responsible for any sort of injury if you miss the count on your pirouettes because you didn’t get enough breakfast, just so that you could be polite. Don’t worry about me. I’m meeting up with JB soon. She said something about breakfast burritos.”

Thankful that he understood, I nodded at him and didn’t argue any further. Although I wasn’t due at company class for a few hours, I was up and ready to go anyway. I hadn’t lied to Jughead; I really did need to be downtown soon. In my weekly routine, the last day of the workweek was also my earliest.

As a member of the Joffrey Ballet, there were certain things afforded to me (and my fellow company members) as per the terms negotiated by the American Guild of Musical Artists, the labor union I belonged to. A supply of custom pointe shoes to my specifications, twice-weekly physical therapy, paid vacation and sick days, a 401K, that sort of thing. But maybe the most important thing I had access to was counseling. Joffrey had a resident psychologist and every Friday I made it downtown early before class for my standing appointment.

Back when I was still an apprentice, technically not a member of the company but paid by it and already represented by the union, I’d looked through my welcome packet very carefully, reading every word, every bit of punctuation. A half-sheet of purple paper buried somewhere in the middle of the stack was what had struck me most. It read like a Public Service Announcement, a little stiff but well-intentioned, waxing poetic to the entire Joffrey community that our mental health was every bit as important as our physical health. It advertised counseling sessions as professional, confidential, and invaluable.

As it turned out, we were doing pretty well at ending the stigma attached to mental health at Joffrey. I couldn’t even change the time of my meetings with Dr. Donahue if I wanted to—so many of the company members sought her guidance that her in-house Friday sessions were fully booked and gridlocked except to first-timers making new appointments. Her counseling had helped me with my own issues so much that I would even go so far as to say that I was surprised counseling wasn’t mandatory for dancers.

Ballet would never just be a normal, steady job that could be turned off after 5 PM. What we did wasn’t ‘normal’ and it was all encompassing of our lives. I thought that ballet lent itself to a lot of mental barriers to get stuck on: whether or not we had the right body type, if we were on the right diet, if we were going to get promoted, if an injury was going to end everything for us, if we could even have healthy relationships—healthy _anything_ —when we were so focused on the pursuit of perfection for our art.

When I’d made it to the conservatory program at the academy as a teenager, I’d been so excited about the opportunity for dance, of course, but also because I’d gotten out of Riverdale early, gotten out from under my mother’s watchful eye early. She had her own pursuit of perfection to make us into the perfect family. I’d always been polite, nice, well-mannered, reliable, _boring_ …all because of my mother. It wasn’t that I ever wanted to be a wild child, but I wanted to be more outgoing, more confident than I was in middle school. And I did get that when I got to Chicago—I made good friends who helped me get out of my shell and I became as well adjusted as I could for being a dance academy kid.

I thought I’d hit the dance jackpot when my parents had decided that, yes, my college fund could be put to use four years early because I wouldn’t ever be an Ivy Leaguer. Instead I needed to go to an elite dance academy so I could be a ballet dancer. I was thrilled not just for that but also because I’d created distance between my mother’s control and myself. However, it didn’t take long for me to learn that ballet was a double-edged sword and every bit as intense as Alice Cooper. Maybe the discipline imposed by ballet even did a chunk of my mother’s work for her. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but maybe that was why she’d let me go in the first place. Ballet as a teenager had been demanding, insistent, and emotional. I’d flourished under the pressure as I’d worked toward my goal of becoming a Joffrey company member. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t had dark days when it felt like I let dance control me completely—when I was overcome by it—and that could be dangerous for any dancer.

I wouldn’t have changed anything about my experience on the way to making the corps de ballet, on the way to where I thought I was _still_ headed onwards and upwards in the company, because it had shaped me to have thick skin and become mentally tough. I just wished I’d been counseled even before I’d gotten my apprenticeship. I wished I’d talked to Dr. Donahue earlier and heard her encouraging words and integrated the coping skills that she promoted, back in the days of my adolescence. Dr. Donahue had been a ballet dancer herself, a former corps member with Boston Ballet. So she got it, what it was like for us, where the psychological blocks were, and how our lives were affected by ballet beyond the studios of Joffrey Tower and the stage of the Auditorium Theatre.

Friday mornings were an important maintenance day for me so that I didn’t capsize before the weekend. I didn’t elaborate why to Jughead as he stood in my kitchen. I continued preparing my food so I could stick to my schedule and get out of the apartment on time to walk to the bus stop at a casual pace rather than sprinting my way there. I liked to be early.

“So why are you here?” I asked my guest for the _third_ time as I shook the plastic bottle of ketchup, then poured some of its contents in a symmetrical pattern over my eggs. “You know Chic leaves at like 6, right?”

“I brought my spare key, in case I accidentally lock myself out of my apartment.” Jughead produced a shiny silver piece of metal from the coin pocket of his worn black jeans and dropped it on the counter next to the sink. “And why do you just assume I would only come up here for Chic? I came to talk to you.”

I’d been about to fork a piece of egg into my mouth but I put the utensil down again, looking up at Jughead. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Jughead finally walked over to the table, the thick rubber soles of his Docs clunking as he shuffled across the tile floor. “What the hell did you do to my friend?”

“Uh…I’m not sure what you mean,” I said.

Actually, I had a pretty good idea what he meant.

“What did you do to Archie?” Jughead clarified, waving his cellphone up in the air. “I got a text from him asking for your phone number.”

Oh, Archie was good.

“I didn’t _do_ anything. I enjoyed his company last night when you left and JB fell asleep.” I smirked. “You can give him my phone number.”

Jughead pulled out the chair at the other end of the table, directly opposite of me, and set his phone down. “Did he ask you for it yesterday? Why wouldn’t you just give it to him yourself?”

“If I gave it to him and he wasn’t actually interested, then he wouldn’t call and I’d be disappointed,” I reasoned. “I told him he could ask you for it.”

“Wait, _disappointed_?” Jughead put emphasis on his question and I cut into my eggs to finally take a bite. “So, what, you’re into him?”

“Maybe,” I shrugged. “He seems nice enough. I’d probably get a better scope for what I think about him if we were to hang out again.”

“Okay, first of all, if a potential suitor is too cheap to take you out on a first date and just wants to ‘hang out’, he’s probably not that into you.” Jughead was revealing a piece of his dating philosophy for the first time and I almost snorted at his sharp tone. “And second, what if he just wants to hook up? What if he breaks your heart?”

Wow. Jughead and I were having a real conversation. He seemed genuinely concerned. I wasn’t freaking out that I liked him so much or that he was going to find out that I did. He was playing right into my hand. If it was a game, a con, like Archie suggested, then I’d just started the countdown of the clock. Jughead’s reaction was what I wanted it to be. It was how Archie said it would be.

Once I’d agreed that I could use his help, Archie and I had begun to hash out our plan. It turned out that for all the sophistication and culture that he seemed to lack, Archie was pretty sneaky. He didn’t have a big vocabulary and was a little slow on the uptake of dry humor, but apparently he could read social cues better than I could.

Maybe that was because he followed a more conventional lifestyle than me. Archie was a senior in college, playing football on a Division III team because the partial athletic scholarship helped pay for school. He was studying music and was an aspiring singer-songwriter. He lived in Roscoe Village with a teammate who also happened to be his fraternity brother.

Being a jock that rocked, Archie was the one who came up with the skeleton of our plan. I still didn’t think that Jughead was the kind of guy who let conventions dictate his feelings, but if I was going to go along with the plan, then I had to put my trust in Archie. Now we were less than twelve hours removed from when I agreed to collaborate with him and the initial part of our plan was already working. So maybe I just needed to stop overthinking what I thought about Jughead. His involvement had been engaged. I had just gotten his attention.

“Whoa, slow down, Jug. Heartbreak? I don’t even know if anything is going to happen. Why do _you_ care what happens?” I took a sip of my apple juice. “You don’t get to tell me who I spend my time with, you know. Who are you, my mother?”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you to stay away from football players?” he countered with a sneer.

She hadn’t. Chic had been a football player. My brother had never been the big man on campus, because being a Cooper was like repellant for popularity, but he’d been athletic on top of being smart, and he’d worn his letterman jacket proudly through high school. The jocks were nice to me when I’d been around because I was Chic’s sister—even nicer to my mother for baking for their fundraisers and advertising their car washes in the paper. If there was a dangerous boy she would have warned me about for those short periods that I was in Riverdale as a teenager, it probably should have been Jughead himself.

For all my mother’s faults in trying to keep up the appearances of a perfect family though, she’d never tried to keep Jughead and the shitty parts of his life out of ours. She’d never told Chic he couldn’t be friends with Jughead, not even when he was deemed weird and troubled youth by their peers. She over enunciated the syllables of Jughead’s name as if she couldn’t believe she actually had to call him that, and she’d sighed at Chic one too many times and said no, his best friend couldn’t just live at our house whenever his father fell off the wagon. But there had also always been invitations for him to join Cooper family meals, there was always conversation about how he was doing—questions about his future and talk of his potential. I was pretty sure that my mother actually liked Jughead, saw a lot of herself in him, even. Because once upon a time, before picket fences and perfection, she’d been a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, too. She’d grown up in the same neighborhood as Jughead and clawed her way out just like he had.

“Archie’s _your_ friend,” I reminded Jughead. “Don’t you consider yourself a good judge of character?”

“That’s exactly my point, Betty. Is Archie a good guy? Sure, as someone who I can play video games with. Sure, as a kid who I hung around Pop’s with for a few weeks every summer when he was in town. And yeah, I _know_ Archie. His family has been nothing but good to me over the years so I love the guy like a brother but he’s…”

“He’s what?”

“He’s pretty much a clueless frat boy with fuckboy tendencies.” Jughead’s exact words were a little funny, but calculated and deliberate. I knew he didn’t describe Archie that way to be mean, but rather, for what he thought was my benefit. “I don’t know if you can trust him to not let you down. His lack of a poker face is endearing but…he’s kind of oblivious. Not the most reliable.”

Jughead took off his beanie to run a hand through his dark hair. An unruly lock curled over his forehead. A sigh came as he repositioned the hat on his head and spoke again, “Look, you and I are…we’re friends, right? Obviously because you’re Chic’s little sister but not only because of that. We’ve known each other for practically our whole lives. I should care about what happens to you. I think I should be looking out for you.”

It took me a moment to gather my wits after what Jughead said. How could someone be both so sweet and so frustrating in one fell swoop? His words were loaded, everything in doublespeak. He considered us friends not only because of my brother, but because we’d grown up together, too. It was sweet that he thought he should care but frustrating to think he only did so out of a feeling of obligation.

Then there was what he’d said about Archie, who he was supposed to know much better than I did. It was ironic that he was calling Archie clueless and unreliable when it was his own cluelessness that had led me to take Archie up on his plan in the first place. Jughead didn’t know just how solid Archie’s poker face was. It seemed it was so good that his almost-brother couldn’t decipher it, only seeing naiveté and endearment. Jughead was already playing into the con and he didn’t even know it.

I couldn’t tell him that Archie was like a golden retriever puppy to me: cute (close), but no cigar. I was more of a scrappy black mutt kind of girl. It didn’t bother me if Archie was girl crazy and an actual fuckboy like Jughead suggested. I just needed Archie to play the role he’d come up with for himself. I was using his plan. In a sense, I guess, I was using him. But he was using me, too, using the disaster of my crush on Jughead to prove to himself that he _was_ reliable. Archie just needed a distraction.

“You don’t need to protect me from anything or anyone, you know? Chic certainly doesn’t,” I told Jughead. “We make our own decisions.”

“I _do_ care about you, Betty.” Jughead looked me directly in the eye and clarified his earlier sentiment about what he thought he should feel, affirming it. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

My breakfast lost its taste. I didn’t know if I was still chewing but it didn’t even matter. There was something there in his eyes and in his voice that I’d never felt before. He really did care. And it wasn’t because I was his best friend’s little sister or because he’d known me for more than half of his life. He cared because he wanted to.

Things were looking up. There was hope for us yet. It made me like him even more.

“I can handle it, I promise,” I smiled at him.

He studied my face, looking for cracks, to see if I was being honest. He nodded after a silent beat lapsed. “Okay. Good.”

Jughead picked up his phone and started tapping the touchscreen. I assumed he was going to send Archie my phone number after voicing his hesitance to me. He still had to let me make my own decision—that wasn’t his choice. He didn’t know that Archie already had my phone number. We’d sent each other at least a dozen text messages to make sure the plan was well thought out and elaborate long after he and Jellybean had left for Morton Grove the night before. I watched Jughead typing with his thumbs and held his gaze when he paused and looked up with a sly grin.

“I think we should go on a double date sometime,” he said casually, like it was no big thing. “That way you and I can buffer for each other, in case Archie turns out to be a dud, and in case the girl I ask out doesn’t understand my sense of humor.”

It took all my strength to maintain my own poker face. A date with Jughead that was anything but a date with Jughead. _Great._ If we’d be doing anything together on a date, it’d be acting as go-betweens for each other, if necessary. I hated the idea, but I didn’t think it would bode me well to refuse when Archie and I had planned it this way, to bring Jughead like a moth to a flame, to get him involved, to get him to react. To get his attention.

“Sure, Juggie,” I agreed, keeping myself in check.

Just when I thought I’d taken the advantage, gotten the upper hand, he presented me with a new obstacle. It was time to buckle down and adjust because there was a good chance that I was in for a long con.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Betty was just going to get what she wanted easily, in one conversation, there wouldn’t be much of a story, now would there? P.S. I solemnly swear that Archie’s end goal is the same as mine, a Bughead endgame. If you want to know what Betty and Trev’s dance might look like, you can check out this excerpt from _Giselle_ done by the Bolshoi Ballet [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GM-PUdUgIgs). There is more about pas de deux and the Peasant pas de deux past this chapter. This is just scratching the surface so that the dance part of Betty’s life is dispersed throughout the story instead of hitting you over the head with it all at once.
> 
> Next chapter’s a big one: Jones family history. Veronica and Kevin make their debuts. A boat and fireworks are involved. I hope you’ll stick around to read it!
> 
> Thank you so much again to all that have left kudos and comments! I love that some of you have shared your theories on what you really think is going on. Please definitely keep doing that, please follow me on [tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/), please comment, please validate me, etc. <3
> 
> ([Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/164854418645/the-con-extended-chapter-notes))


	4. The Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long. Like almost 8500 words long. So…maybe grab a snack? I’d love to know your thoughts at the end. <3

For the last few years, the very last ovation to summer happened on a boat. My friend Veronica, fellow dance academy survivor and Chicago socialite, threw an annual party on a yacht rented out by her father on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, the last night that the Navy Pier fireworks would grace the sky over Lake Michigan. Veronica’s party was like an expensive, exclusive booze cruise that left at 9 o’clock on the dot and docked at Burnham Harbor just before midnight. Canapés were floated around on silver platters by cater waiters dressed in all white and a buffet spread was set up on the lower deck, with guests free to choose where on the boat they wanted to eat. The exterior of the boat was lit up by tea lights and paper lanterns. A DJ was spinning an eclectic set and a section of the open-air upper deck served as a makeshift dance floor.

The boat’s sound system, along with the extra speakers set up on deck, did a pretty good job at amplifying the bass tones of the club songs. Archie had a hand on the small of my back and a goofy grin on his face. We were in the middle of the dance floor at Veronica’s last summer hurrah, dancing to a very non-ballet composition with some pretty suggestive lyrics. Dancing was my entire life. It didn’t have to be ballet for me to have fun. I appreciated dance for more than just ballet’s pristine structure. I wasn’t typically one for the club scene, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know what I was doing when the opportunity presented itself. I was comfortable dancing with a partner and having my personal space invaded—my job pretty much depended on that. There was very little space between Archie and me. With his hand digging into my back, and my hands clutching at his biceps, we were grinding to the music.

The party was exclusive, but as one of Veronica’s closest friends, I was allowed to bring anyone I wanted. The season-ending fireworks were much more enjoyable surrounded by drunk people that Veronica had hand-selected rather than bumping shoulders with college kids sipping Pabst Blue Ribbon wrapped in brown paper bags on the pier or on the Grant Park lawn. Chic had attended the party with me the year before with the girl he’d been trying to impress, Tomoko, his now-girlfriend. It had been his first Veronica Lodge party, something he’d said he could get used to. So he was down to attend before I even asked if he wanted to. Jughead had never been much of a partygoer but Chic only had to tell him about the buffet spread and he was in, claiming he could suffer through rich kids and _“Despacito”_ if it meant the Kobe beef was free.

I wasn’t sure how Jellybean felt about being dragged along because while Jughead had considered himself a special flower in his youth, Jellybean had always been the coolest kid I’d ever known. Siouxsie Sioux had been her fashion idol in elementary school. Before she and her mom, Gladys, left Riverdale, she was listening to NPR and watching _Meet the Press_ unironically. 

All grown up though, Jellybean had just acquired more layers. She still loved listening to Pink Floyd and had an Alkaline Trio tattoo. She’d moved on from _Meet the Press_ to C-SPAN. But she also read French Vogue (hence her bobbed haircut) and followed the original LiveJournal version of TMZ: _Oh No They Didn’t!_ Being the socialite that she was, Veronica was an ‘it girl’, Instagram famous, someone Jellybean already followed. Jellybean said she’d be happy to go to the party.

And Archie? Well, we were using the party to ‘hang out’. I’d rehashed my talk with Jughead to him over the phone during my lunch break not long after the conversation happened. Archie thought the best course of action was to strike while the iron was hot (his word choice—an idiom he got right), so there we were, just over 48 hours from plan initiation, conning on the dance floor.

Archie leaned in close to me so his lips were near my ear when the song was about half over. He was laughing as he yelled, “Never realized it before, but this song is kinda raunchy.”

And he was right. It was. The song was basically four minutes chalk full of innuendos, a duet of the singers telling their partner to please just go harder during sex without ever using those words directly. The beat was easy to groove to though.

“Yeah, you’re nothing but _bad_ ,” I yelled back, speaking not of our dancing but with innuendo.

“We have an audience,” Archie said, adjusting his hands so they were both on my hips.

Our moves weren’t starkly different from those of the other people dancing around us. But we weren’t playing fair either. Our intentions weren’t about dancing just to dance. We were playing our con. I glanced over to the seating area set up near the stern of the boat. It was where we’d been sitting before we hit the floor. Chic and Tomoko were sitting beside the Joneses, who each had buffet plates in their hands. Tomoko was talking animatedly, hands gesturing while Chic and Jellybean listened to her, but Jughead was watching Archie and me.

It still didn’t mean anything other than I’d gotten his attention. But hey, _I’d gotten his attention!_ A lot more in the last few days than over the last few years. Archie didn’t get enough credit for his efforts to think outside the box. He wasn’t just the dopey guy that everyone had him pegged as. From what he’d shown me, he wasn’t fresh faced and unknowing—he was a schemer. He was committed to our project. His supposed lack of a poker face was his greatest mask of all, because no one suspected that what we were doing was for show. It was our secret and it was better that way. As far as everyone else knew, Archie and I were acquaintances from back home that had just reconnected and were considering starting something new.

“You look really good, by the way,” Archie spoke in my ear again. “If I wasn’t me, I think I’d envy me if I was watching you dance with me like this.”

He had a few too many ‘me’s in his sentence but he was honest. I liked that about Archie. It might be dishonest to give everyone else an illusion of what we were, but because we were partners in the whole thing, he was honest with me. Ever since a few nights ago when we sat beside each other on the couch, he told me exactly what he thought. It was refreshing. It was great because I could get close to him without there being any sexual tension. We could find attractive qualities in each other without our signals getting mixed up.

When I looked up at him, there was a lopsided grin playing on his lips. I threw my head back and giggled in response to what he said about looking good and envy. I never could have guessed that I’d be on a yacht cruising Lake Michigan, with the boy next door helping me gain the attention of the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. The whole situation was ridiculous, really. It was stupid. It was probably juvenile. But I couldn’t see myself putting an end to it so soon when the plan was working.

As the DJ spun and transitioned into a new song, I took a risk and turned around so that my back was to Archie’s chest. I was still completely pressed up against him and he curled one of his arms around my waist. “Who’s bad now?” he asked.

I almost laughed again as I rested my head back against the crook of his neck. I closed my eyes and smiled. I was relaxed there on the floor. I’d even go as far to say that I felt safe. Not because of Archie, but because of the power dancing gave me. It was the thing that I felt most confident about, the one irrevocable thing that wasn’t up for debate that I was good at. Even if I stumbled or struggled in rehearsal, that was part of the learning process, but there was no question that I was a good dancer. It was exactly why I’d been brave enough to turn around and press back against Archie. My whole reason for being was conveying expression through controlled body movement. Whether the music playing was a suggestive pop song or a tear-spurning symphony orchestra, I could get lost in it.

My eyes flew open when Archie’s hands left my body and there was open space behind me. I turned around and met the back of his neck. He had to lean down as he spoke to another girl, shorter and much more brunette than me. She was dancing with—or _trying_ to dance with—Archie. He wasn’t having it. He cautiously took hold of one of her elbows and one of her wrists, steadying her.

“Sorry,” I heard him say over the music. “I came to dance with my date.”

Wow. He really was like a puppy dog. A few days into our project and loyalty was already one of his best qualities.

The sly smile on the girl’s face fell. She looked at me, standing behind Archie, and gave me the elevator eyes. The look she gave me read as _why you and not me?_ —and she had every right. Both of us had smoky eye makeup on. We were dressed similarly, in dresses that were low cut at the bust and hemmed to mid-thigh. Her silky brown hair fell in waves around her face in the same way that my blonde locks fell around mine. So why should I get to grind with the cute, athletically built redhead and not her?

Because Archie was a puppy.

She sighed and spun on her heel. I was glad for her that her friends were standing nearby and she was able to blend back into their group easily. It was a small party, and with it being so exclusive, she knew Veronica in some way, or knew someone who knew Veronica, so maybe I’d see her again in the future. I hated to think it would have to be awkward, because of Archie, who wasn’t doing anything more than helping me. I wasn’t catty. I didn’t see other girls as my competition, especially not drunk ones who were bold enough to just get up and show a guy she was interested. As confident as I was that I could keep up with the best of them at a club dance-wise, I wasn’t the type of girl to approach a stranger to dance. I mean I’d liked my brother’s best friend—who I’d hardly spent any time with in my adult life—in silence for a long time. Obviously I had a fear of rejection.

Archie turned back to me once the girl was dancing comfortably with her girlfriends. We faced each other as he put his arm back around my waist.

“I didn’t know I was your date,” I told him.

He shrugged with a grin. “You know what I meant.”

“You didn’t have to do that, you know? You didn’t have to send her away.” I responded over the bass thump. If what Jughead said was true, about Archie having fuckboy tendencies, then he probably already regretted sending her away so that we could continue the impression we were giving off. “I know how to share.”

I didn’t mind being part of an Archie sandwich on the dance floor. Weren’t guys into that kind of thing? Just because we were giving off the impression that we were digging each other, it didn’t mean he couldn’t dance to the dirty music with another girl. It was just dancing. I did it with a friend, or three, all the time.

“To be honest,” he stopped moving, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

I pulled back slightly and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“I know I’m enthusiastic. And I like dancing. But any rhythm I have is just because I’m so into music, because that’s my thing. Or…I want it to be. I know I’m not a very good dancer though,” Archie admitted. “You’re the dancer. I’m just following your lead.”

My ears perked up at his confession. I guess that made sense. It wasn’t like he had to do much while we were in so close to each other. His grip had been tense and too tight—nothing like any of the pas de deux partners I’d had in a long time—but I thought it had just been because of the eyes watching us, so we could get our point across. I put my hands on his hips with a bit of pressure and he made a face.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you trust me?” I asked.

“Come on, Betty, even I know you’re not supposed to answer a question with a question,” he answered.

I didn’t change my words when I repeated the question. “Do you trust me?”

Archie nodded.

“Just relax,” I commanded as I made breathing room between us and applied more pressure, trying to move his hips.

He eyed me skeptically. I showed him what to do, swinging my own hips from side to side. I guided his movement with my hands, trying to get him to mirror what I was doing. It wasn’t all bad once he loosened up. Archie wasn’t the ‘uncoordinated doofus’ that Jughead claimed him to be a few nights back. He didn’t have two left feet. I put one of my hands on his wrist and tapped the beat he should be grooving to. Maybe not in the most fluid of fashion—he wasn’t a natural—but he caught on. When he trusted me (and himself) enough that he was dancing properly, I stopped the metronome on his arm and rested my hand on his back, just under his shoulder blade.

It did remind me of ballet pas de deux. Pas de deux was, of course, about form and technique, but it was also about trust and connection. I had to trust that my partner was going to lift and catch me, and ease my spinning instead of breaking my momentum during pirouettes, when it was required. He had to trust that I would put myself in the right position for him to support me throughout. A big part of the reason I’d gotten a solo role in the Joffrey Ballet’s upcoming production of _Giselle_ was because my current partner, Trev, and I danced so well together.

We’d gotten paired with each other in the final spring production of the previous season just before he was promoted to soloist. We became friends over a couple of lunches when our artistic director wanted to test a potential partnership, and we proved to have dance chemistry. Our director called it a meeting of the minds. A few weeks ago, at the start of the new season, I was the very last girl to audition for the Peasant pas de deux. Initially, I hadn’t even been under consideration. Trev had already been cast because of his promotion. When he danced the audition piece with a couple of the female soloists it looked great—soloists didn’t get to be so without being amazing dancers—but it didn’t have the same feeling as when we danced it together. As dancers, that’s what we were always striving for, to make our audience _feel_. Trev and I sold our artistic director on me just by dancing together.

Obviously Archie wasn’t anywhere near as good a dancer as Trev was—not even in the same galaxy—but for our purpose on the makeshift dance floor, his partnering skills were reasonable.

We took a break from the floor once the song that I taught him to move his hips to ended. I made my way over to my friends while Archie took for the stairs down to the main deck where the cocktail lounge was, and promised to gauge Jughead’s reaction if he made it back to our seating area before me.

I was barely within earshot of the cocktail table where Veronica and our friend Kevin were standing before I got an onslaught from Veronica. “You have _so much_ explaining to do, B. I need details of why you were practically dry humping this red-headed Ansel Elgort before you _gave him a dance lesson_.”

It seemed the quick dance lesson looked like so much more to observers. That was the point though, with Jughead being our target audience.

“V!” I exclaimed with eyes wide. “We were not!”

Her response was to quirk a perfectly arched eyebrow at me. Kevin laughed beside her.

“No need to be coy, Betty Cooper.” Kevin nudged me with his shoulder. “There’s a reason why you’re working your way up to soloist at Joffrey and we had to make sure the door didn’t hit us on the way out.”

I rolled my eyes at Kevin. “Says the guy who had to hop a plane from LA to get here!”

The three of us had met at Joffrey Academy and stayed close over the years. It had been just Kevin and me during freshman year. We’d both been so timid and young when we made it to the academy. The older kids didn’t go out of their way to be mean to us, but any new blood was potential for roles to be taken away from them, so they’d left us to our own devices for the most part. We watched _Gossip Girl_ and debated whether One Direction could even hold a candle to the boy bands of the 90’s. I held Kevin’s hand the night before a long weekend when he’d decided he was going to come out to his dad, an Irish-Catholic police captain. We’d cried happy tears together when he came back and relayed to me that his father’s exact words were _son, of all the things you could have told me, being gay never would have even registered on the scale of anything I’d ever be mad or ashamed of you for_. 

Veronica showed up at the beginning of sophomore year. She was the daughter of a local billionaire tycoon and her parents had decided that more than constantly traveling for her father’s business deals, what she needed was stability in one place. Veronica had already gone to ballet classes in New York and Paris by age twelve, so being at Joffrey was just the comfort of home for her. Veronica was the kind of girl who did what she wanted when she wanted it, who was bold and said whatever was on her mind in blunt terms. I didn’t think she would like me, much less become my best friend over time, but she’d played a key role in getting me to break out of my shell in high school.

Kevin, Veronica, and I landed in different places after high school, after the academy, transitioning to where we thought we belonged. Kevin loved dance and figured out that his passion was in choreography, not just ballet, but all kinds, mostly modern. He’d gone to LA the summer after graduation for an intensive camp at one of the big Hollywood dance studios where their faculty of choreographers got hired to compose for music videos and world tours. At the end of the camp he ended up as a backup dancer at the VMAs and, subsequently, he kept lining up more work, so he never came home. His latest project was as a backup dancer for a Top 40 radio artist making the rounds on late night talk shows. I was only teasing Kevin, and I was proud of him for making it in LA. I knew that his work was freelance-based. I knew how hard he had to hustle for his dreams. 

As for Veronica, she’d liked ballet, and she’d been good at it, but it had proved to be too much structure and not enough freedom for her. It had never been like oxygen for her. She appreciated it like she appreciated many different kinds of art: fashion, photography, music, live performance. Being the socialite and ‘it girl’ that she was, she had the means to travel and showcase those interests. She’d started out on YouTube doing ‘get ready with me’ and monthly favorites videos, and it snowballed into her being a lifestyle vlogger with three million subscribers and counting.

“So, B,” Veronica’s brown eyes were devious as she took a sip of her apple martini, “Tell me about this ginger stallion.”

I smiled widely at her with a nod. She was my best friend, so sooner or later, I would have to spill the details on the con. In the early stages though, I didn’t intend to tell her what was really going on with Archie and me. Not yet. Archie and I had agreed it was all on a _need to know_ basis—just between the two of us. But Veronica didn’t have to know that.

“His name’s Archie. I don’t know…he’s…cute. Nice.” I quickly listed some adjectives that described Archie’s puppy qualities. “I’ve known him for a long time without really knowing him. He was from Riverdale, too, but he moved here when he was little. He’s friends with Jughead though.”

“ _Jughead?_ ” Veronica squinted her eyes with disbelief. “What the hell is in the water in your hometown? You actually know someone named Jughead?”

“That’s Chic’s best friend, right?” Kevin answered for me. “Tall, dark, and broody over there.”

Kevin nodded in Jughead’s direction. It appeared that Archie hadn’t made his way back over to where Jughead was sitting. He was probably still in line at the cocktail lounge. It was an open bar, so it was sure to be busy. The expression on Jughead’s face was a somber scowl as he spoke to Jellybean and popped a spanakopita hors d’oeuvre in his mouth.

Veronica followed Kevin’s line of vision. “Well, excuse me. Are the sleeves of his button down rolled up? How very _East of Eden_.”

Jughead’s version of a pre-Labor Day party outfit was very Jughead. His signature beanie was planted firmly on his head but he’d traded his combat boots for Converse. His skinny pants were khaki in color but made of that workwear material—far from anything out of the Tommy Bahama catalog—with suspenders dangling from his hips. His white undershirt was tucked into his pants and a burgundy button-down short-sleeve shirt was left open and unbuttoned, cuffed at the sleeves, accentuating lean muscles in his biceps.

I chuckled at Veronica’s reference. Personally, I thought Jughead’s look for the night was more Marlon Brando in _A Streetcar Named Desire_ than James Dean, but that was neither here nor there. If Jughead had his say, he would probably comment on the literary value of the original works before launching into his approvals and qualms with the film adaptations.

“Maybe you should do a style feature on _him_ ,” Kevin suggested to Veronica. “Is being doom and gloom still a thing?”

“Hmm. Our very own modern day Holden Caulfield.” Veronica mused out loud, pensively. “Betty, your thoughts?”

My honest thoughts were that whether or not _doom and gloom_ —as Kevin had put it—was still a thing, I was attracted to Jughead, and not just because of his looks. “I think Juggie would scowl and say,” I cleared my throat and did my best impression of Jughead’s voice, “ _‘Poverty isn’t an aesthetic, Veronica.’_ ”

“Oh my God, _Juggie_?” Veronica pressed her hand to her heart, just under the line of pearls that adorned her neck. The creamy white of the pearls were a contrast and coordination to the tailored, form-fitting black mini dress that she wore. “That is precious. How have I never been to Riverdale, the land of nicknames that are just so extra?”

“Oh, it gets even better,” I offered. “His sister’s name is Jellybean. JB for short.”

“Who would _I_ even be in Riverdale?” Kevin sighed fondly. “Or is my name just too ordinary for such a quaint place?”

I thought of my mother and the myth that she played into, that our town was perfect, with tree lined streets and happy families on every block. I thought of the part of town she was from, where Jughead was from, and how it undermined the myth that was Riverdale. The cute little old-fashioned names that we had—Betty, Chic, Juggie, and even Archie—they were just another part of the smoke show that was _the town with pep!_

“Believe me, Kev,” I shortened my friend’s name, “it’s better to have an ordinary name that’s honest.”

“Anyway,” Veronica patted my arm as she finished off her drink. “Introduce me later, B? I think my channel could benefit from the hipster 90’s grunge demographic that aspires to teach Jordan Catalano how to read.”

“Yeah, sure. Fair warning though, I honestly don’t think he’d be up for it. Jughead’s kind of aloof. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask.” I agreed, willing to help Veronica in her social media celebrity career in any way. Veronica Lodge was not someone who asked for help very often and she wasn’t someone you said ‘no’ to very often, either. 

“Speaking of which, I think I need to check in with…the crew,” I continued, gesturing at the starboard seating area where my group of guests had taken refuge. Jughead was on his feet and Jellybean handed over her empty plate to him to give to one of the cater waiters that was collecting them. “Will you both save me a dance later?”

“Of course! More than one.” Veronica nodded emphatically and then smoothed down her raven hair before turning to Kevin, “Another drink?”

Kevin squeezed my shoulder just before they walked away. “Ciao for now, _Elizabeth_.”

When I reached the seating area where our group had earlier staked claim, Jellybean was sitting by herself. I saw that Chic and Tomoko had taken to the dance floor, like many of the partygoers had, hands up and crooning along to a song about exactly what we would be witnessing soon: Lake Michigan fireworks. Jughead had moved to the port side. He was smoking a cigarette, profile illuminated by the moonlight, looking back at the city lights of the skyscrapers behind us.

I waited until I was close enough that I didn’t have to yell to speak to Jellybean. “Alone again?”

She flashed me an intentionally haughty smile and upturned her palms in the air. “Naturally.”

I took the seat beside her as a portion of the dance floor broke into cheers—for themselves—chanting along to the adlibs before the song ended.

“Damn,” Jellybean observed, “people from this city _really_ like songs about their city.”

“That they do.” I advised, “You could probably get the DJ to play a more rock-driven song if you want to dance, as long as it’s about the Second City.”

She snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So you’re ready to go back to Ohio, huh?”

“I guess so. I don’t _not_ like being here tonight. It is nice, Betty. My Instagram is blowing up from the last picture I posted, because the geotag alone tells everyone that I’m at Veronica Lodge’s party. I wouldn’t be here on this boat without you, so thank you. I just…” Jellybean huffed and played with a piece of her bangs. “I guess it makes me homesick—for Toledo—which saying that out loud is _so_ crazy, because of all places, who the hell misses _Toledo_?”

“Well, your brother was there with you the last two years,” I said gently. “I don’t think anyone would blame you for missing him.”

“Exactly. And being here, seeing everything Jug’s going to have…it makes me wish I was in his shoes. Because he gets his best friend, and the world class city, and the expensive art school.” Jellybean sighed. “But I’m not the prodigal son.”

I bit my lip, not sure how I should respond. “Oh, JB…”

“I know that’s a fractured fable in our case. I really shouldn’t be saying that. He had it so rough in Riverdale, so that I wouldn’t. And I’m so proud of him, really, I am,” Jellybean amended her malcontent. “After everything that’s happened with our dad, Jug deserves everything that he’s gotten.”

Truly, the most complicated relationship Jughead had in his life was with his father. FP Jones II was an alcoholic and had been for most of Jughead’s life. He’d lost his job as a foreman at Andrews Construction because of it, for day drinking and extracurricular activities when he was thinking with the bottle. He’d lost his family’s home, an heirloom of sorts passed down by Forsythe the first, and had to move them into Sunnyside Trailer Park. He’d lost his wife and his daughter, who left for grandparents in Toledo rather than hack it out in the trailer park when he himself wasn’t trying. He’d gotten heavily involved with the local gang, the Southside Serpents, so he could keep the lights and the television on in the trailer, so he could keep drinking beer and keep the cabinet stocked with liquor and not much else. There were times that FP found himself arrested and times that he did jail stints, for Serpent business, misdemeanors for minor offenses. Jughead had had to fend for himself a lot as a teenager, as if being bullied wasn’t enough, often acting as the parent to his parent.

Through it all, it was only Jughead that FP didn’t lose. There’d been a time when it got so bad, after Gladys and Jellybean left, that a 15-year-old Jughead would have rather made himself homeless than stay at the trailer. When Chic found out that Jughead was sleeping in the projection booth of the Twilight Drive-In, that was when he’d begged our parents to let Jughead stay with us. But even when Jughead wasn’t under his father’s roof, it never meant that FP had lost his son. Jughead was the only one who could really get through to FP. When Jughead begged and argued and said he was done, FP would stay sober for a few weeks at a time, as long as he could stand before he relaxed and relapsed. Jughead would stay at Sunnyside until FP fell off the wagon, and they would start the cycle anew.

For all of FP’s shortcomings, there was never any doubt that he cared about Jughead or that he loved Jughead. He was the parent who had stayed, after all. Their relationship was always conflicted. FP had let Jughead down, time after time, and he couldn’t save himself. But there had been a time when he’d had to save Jughead, had to dig deep to make sure Jughead made it out of Riverdale. 

One time when FP had to do a short stint in jail for a DUI, the Serpents recruited Jughead. They got him at his lowest, with only Chic looking out for him, and Chic couldn’t offer a sense of family or petty cash in exchange for petty crimes. For a few months, Jughead was a teenage gang member, no longer the bookish loner kid. He was the beautiful hood rat in the leather jacket—with a motorcycle. Girls liked him, because they all liked the illusion of dating a bad boy who was not actually a bad boy, and the Serpents (seemingly) were his family unit, so he was set. Nothing Chic could have said or done would have mattered then.

It was only FP that could have gotten through to him then, which he did, stepped in before any double-headed snake tattoos were inked on Forsythe the third. FP was raving mad that his gang had pulled his son in when he’d specifically said that Jughead was off-limits. He wanted them to protect him, not recruit him. He did what he had to do to get Jughead out, let his son keep the bike but most definitely not the jacket. For once it seemed like it was FP’s turn to take care of Jughead. He drank enough to be drunk most of the time but stayed out of jail for Jughead’s entire senior year of high school, all the way through summer until Jughead was safely in the freshman dorms at Michigan, having worked the education system for every scholarship, every grant, every piece of financial aid lent to him by Federal Student Aid for being ‘economically disadvantaged’. FP himself had said it was the first time he’d done right by his son.

The relationship went under its biggest strain near the end of Jughead’s junior year in college. He got word that FP was going to jail, which wasn’t new news to him, but that time around it wasn’t for a few months or even six months. FP got 18 months for repeat offense; state prison instead of county jail. I cried when Chic recounted the story to me, when he talked about how devastated Jughead was. FP missed Jughead’s college graduation. He missed Jughead moving into his own apartment in Toledo. He missed a lot. 18 months was a long time.

That included enough time to get stone cold sober. In prison, he kept his head down and stayed out of trouble, joined the program for recovering alcoholics, and got a job in the kitchen. FP traded in one vice for another, learning card games, gambling on small things from the commissary that were often traded for. Upon his release at the end of his sentence, he was especially determined to get back to a modest life with a job and a roof over his head. The program on the inside had taught him a lot; he was still sober.

FP had always been a man of extremes—all or nothing—no middle ground. He was either drinking his life away or completely sober. He was employed and at the top of his game or completely unreliable. He was fixing his life for his son or he was throwing everything away, hurting the one person who could never seem to give up on him.

It was no wonder that when the impossible happened, when FP Jones II won the lottery, FP Jones III was terrified that his father would wind up dead, drowned by his old friends or drowned by the bottle.

It wasn’t the Mega Millions Powerball jackpot, because he’d only gotten the first 5 numbers. It was a small prize—relative to the grand prize—less than a million dollars after taxes. None of the crimes he’d been arrested or incarcerated for had ever been gambling or laundering related, so he got to keep the money. Being the man of extremes that he was, and prison having done a number on him, he gave Jughead power of attorney over his money. He said Jughead was the only person he trusted to do the right thing with that kind of money. He couldn’t make up for the years of not being a good father, couldn’t make up for the things Jughead had to go through, but it was what he could offer to make amends. True to his nature of extremes, it took prison _and_ winning the lottery to set FP straight; three years sober and counting, the longest of Jughead’s life.

FP had finally made a turning point in his life, and after winning on a whim, for once, things were better. Jughead invested some of his father’s money back into Andrews Construction and FP got his job back. He moved into a halfway house, newly cognizant that alcoholism was a disease that he’d be fighting for the rest of his life. There was money for Jellybean to go to college and for Jughead to pay off his student loans from undergrad.

When Jughead got into grad school at SAIC, with only partial scholarship and less than desirable financial aid options, his family still insisted that he should use FP’s money and go. For once he should make a decision about his future entirely for himself, they’d begged him. What Jellybean had just said to me was true—he _did_ deserve that.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m whining about my lame college freshman problems to you,” Jellybean spoke again. “We barely know each other. But you know all about my fucked up family. I think you know Jug pretty well, too.”

“You can talk to me about anything, JB. I’ll always listen. Even when you get back to school, if you want,” I told her. “Just because our brothers have a friendship of epic proportions, doesn’t mean we can’t have one at all.”

The rapport between Chic and Jughead was one for the ages. It wasn’t always easy to be on the outside of that, as a younger sister, to see your sibling relate to someone else better than you ever could, to see them put themselves on the line for each other not because of blood, but for a forged bond. For friendship.

“I’d like that.” Jellybean’s eyes lit up and she elbowed me slightly before speaking in a lower octave so that no one else could hear, “But full disclosure, Betty, by the way…I wasn’t asleep.”

“What?” I leaned in toward her. I wasn’t sure what she meant and the pumping music distorted the words that I heard.

“I wasn’t asleep.”

My eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Uh…okay?”

“I know all about your deal with Archie,” she clarified, “I know what you’re doing.”

It didn’t take long for me to know what she meant. She’d had her eyes closed the whole time a few nights ago when Archie figured me out, but she hadn’t been unconscious. Jellybean had been _fake sleeping_. I felt the heat rush to my cheeks and my chest tightened. Oh God. She _knew_. She knew that I liked her brother and what I was doing because of it. I racked my brain quickly for an appropriate response, an explanation, something. It never came.

“Are you mad?” I asked instead.

Jellybean shook her head. “Are you kidding? A girl eons out of my brother’s league wants to slum it with him. Why would I be mad? Honestly, I just think that it’s either the best idea ever…or…the worst.”

“Why?”

“I think you and Ju—you and him—” Jellybean corrected herself, stopping the blunder of saying her brother’s name out loud. The music had just cut out and people were shuffling to find a place to sit or stand, which meant the fireworks were due to start any minute. She rephrased, “I think you’d be good for him. But he uses sarcasm and anger as a way of keeping people from getting too close to him, so he doesn’t have to deal with how he really feels. And that means he can be kind of a dick sometimes. Be careful.”

 _Be careful._ The words resonated in my head.

Just as Archie arrived from the bar with quick strides, drinks in hand, I gave Jellybean a half hug. “You’re not going to tell your brother, are you?”

Archie handed me the gin and tonic I’d asked for and Jellybean ended the hug, shaking her head at both of us. “I can keep a secret.”

The crew, as I’d referred to them, settled into the lounge chairs for the show of fireworks. Jellybean and I stayed beside each other, while Archie took to my other side, Jughead took to hers, and Chic and Tomoko sat beside him. I glanced at Jellybean nervously a few times, in between colorful explosions in the sky, but she never looked back at me. She snuggled into her brother’s side, blue eyes bright as she watched streams of light shoot up into the sky and change color as they exploded high above the Ferris wheel and reflected on the water. She looked just like she did when she was six years old, eyes wide and full of wonder, in the bed of FP’s old mint green truck at the Twilight Drive-In.

I didn’t know if Jellybean was going to keep her word and keep my secret. What if she felt the urge to interfere? What if she told her brother the truth once she was already back at school, where there was no way I could do anything about it? It was just like she’d said earlier: I knew her but I didn’t really _know_ her. She wasn’t obligated to me. She didn’t owe me any loyalty. There was no way to tell if she was just going to disappear quietly into the night in Ohio.

When the show of pyrotechnics ended, Veronica made her way over for the round of introductions, before she and Kevin pulled Archie and me to the dance floor. I took turns dancing with Archie and with both my friends. When it came time for Archie to dance with Veronica, he began by dancing the same way I’d shown him earlier in the night even though the tempo of the song was different. Veronica winked at me, then shook her head with a smirk, ready to school him.

Jellybean managed to get the DJ to play a song by The Cure. Well, it was a more danceable cover of a song by The Cure by today’s standards, but it got her on the floor. It also meant that Jughead was dragged to join us, unable to say no to Jellybean’s pouty lip and her _come on, please, Juggie?_ since they wouldn’t see each other again until Thanksgiving. He looked cute and awkward, shuffling his feet and bouncing at his knees but very clearly not into it. A few times, he twirled Jellybean and gave her a dip, which made both of them laugh. It was nice to see him that way, not so guarded. His genuine smiles could set off fireworks in the pit of my stomach. They made my insides feel like butter on a summer day. But it was so much more than his looks that had made me like him for so long. If it were only his appearance that attracted me, I would have gotten over my crush years ago.

In ballet, we were always chasing after perfection. I resented the idea that we were perfect, more specifically that _I_ was perfect, or that I should be. In my life, the quest for perfection was saved strictly for ballet, trying to reach something unattainable while doing it beautifully. It was something to strive for that could never realistically be reached. So maybe what we were really after was grace. That was what I’d seen in Jughead for so long. I’d once heard that the people that we found ourselves attracted to were people with qualities we wished we saw in ourselves. I admired that Jughead could do everything, get through what he’d been through, never perfectly but always with grace.

Even after everything, he was quick to say that his father’s money wasn’t _his_ money. When people found out how the Joneses had gotten the money to keep up with the Joneses, so to speak, and they asked Jughead in a condescending tone what it was like to become rich overnight, he shot them down. He would say that he’d gotten money to pay off his student loans and he was given money for grad school and a place to live, but it wasn’t _his_. He would say that graduating from the University of Michigan had been a good thing for him. He would say that moving to Toledo to be in the same city as his sister and supporting himself without eating Top Ramen for every meal was a step up from his teenage years. Because _those_ were his; that was what he’d done for himself, that was what it was like.

SAIC was a gift, one he deserved, but still a gift nonetheless in his eyes. He chose the modest conditions of moving into a tiny basement studio and he was interviewing for part time jobs to account for groceries and bills. He was still the same Jughead, clothes and attitude born of Riverdale’s specific version of poverty (which was why I didn’t think he’d want Veronica to sensationalize his image to her audience), waiting for the other shoe to drop, unbelieving that it was okay for him to have it good. Willingly, Jughead _wasn’t_ rolling in it. He had too much grace for that.

Jellybean’s song request ended and transitioned into a mid-tempo Drake song. Since Kevin and I were dancing beside the Joneses, I saw her roll her eyes. I giggled and she caught my gaze. I saw the glint of mischief form in her eyes right before she reached out to grab me.

“Betty! Let’s trade partners!” she exclaimed. “I want a chance for Kevin to teach me his moves.”

I know she didn’t mean it. But suddenly I had my answer about her keeping my secret. She would.

“You dance with Betty, Jug,” Jellybean said.

Without so much as a wink or a knowing glance, she practically shoved Jughead and I toward each other. It wasn’t even close to what I’d expected from the night.

“Hey,” I addressed Jughead, trying to remain casual.

“Hey.”

“Um…” I trailed off, already ready to let him off the hook, to get him out of having to dance with me. He’d only been dancing willingly because of Jellybean in the first place. Besides, dancing with Jughead hadn’t been part of the docket for the current phase of the con. The game plan, as Archie had advised, was simple: be acknowledged by not acknowledging. 

But Jughead surprised me. Hopefully my eyes didn’t bug out of my head. He took my hand, _took my hand_ , as I looked around us. The crowd shifted as bodies moved to the song and we were surrounded by strangers instead of our friends. Jellybean and Kevin had moved away and it looked like Kevin was showing her choreography he’d composed for an up-and-comer. Kevin was the preppiest person that I knew, hair always coiffed and pressed shirts always under sweater vests, but when he danced to R&B beats, he was as slick as any b-boy.

Veronica was still taking care of Archie, laughing at him and adjusting his body movements while he eagerly obeyed. They looked to be having a great time with each other; it looked like there could be some fireworks between them. The floor was much more packed than it had been during my grind session with Archie earlier, so hopefully the girl with the shiny brown hair that he had turned down wasn’t watching and mad that he’d lied to her about only dancing with me. Not that she could really be mad about singles who the host danced with anyway. Even if Archie was technically my date, what we were to each other was purposefully undefined. He definitely wasn’t _mine_.

Jughead held my hand up in his before he moved it to his shoulder. His other hand settled on my waist as we settled into a groove. Immediately, there was a notable difference between his dancing and Archie’s. Archie had been enthusiastic albeit needing instruction, but Jughead seemed to have the natural rhythm that Archie lacked, actually putting some effort in. He even knew how to lead.

“You know,” I tried to give him a subtle compliment while teasing him at the same time, “for someone who doesn’t dance, you’re not bad.”

“Just because I don’t like to dance, it doesn’t mean I don’t know _how_ , Betts,” he responded gruffly.

That was cryptic. I implied as much with the quizzical look I gave him.

“When I was really little, before everything went to shit, my parents liked to dance. Once a month they’d go out to one of those restaurants that had a live jazz band playing, over in Greendale,” Jughead informed me. “My mom used to make me her partner around the house. Guess it stuck.”

My face flushed, afraid that I’d hit a nerve. Jughead’s aforementioned relationship with his father was complicated but at least it was functioning. His relationship with his mother was a whole different story. “I’m sorry, Juggie. I didn’t mean to drag up—”

My meager apology was cut off abruptly when the person behind me turned and inadvertently elbowed me in the back. I nearly tripped over my dance partner’s feet. I fell against Jughead and his arm that had been lightly settled on my waist went to support me, his hand on my lower back, pulling me closer.

“You okay?” he wondered.

I nodded but he didn’t back off. In closer proximity to each other, he slowed our movement so that we were swaying. That was the nice thing about mid-tempo dance beats: multiple cadences to choose from and follow along. 

“Are _you_ okay?” I asked Jughead, my chin rested on his shoulder. I hoped he knew that I was extending my apology for dredging up the past when I’d asked about his dancing skills.

“I’m okay,” Jughead spoke just loud enough for me to hear, warm breath tickling my earlobe. His second hand met the one that was already on my back and I was enveloped in his embrace. “It was a long time ago.”

We danced, almost completely pressed up against each other, and when I moved my fingers to the back of his neck I realized it was the closest we’d been to each other in years, maybe even _ever_.

There was no grand moment of epiphany. I didn’t look up into his steely blue eyes and lose myself there. But it was nice. Having only been fourteen when I moved to Chicago, I’d never been to the high school parties or dances that Chic and Jughead went to (not that Jughead would have been in attendance at many of those anyway). As fate would have it, it was the first time ever I was dancing with Jughead, and I wasn’t nervous or worried that I would betray myself. Actually, I felt at ease. I thought that I could get used to being that close to him.

The eyes I wound up looking into were Archie’s. He and Veronica were a few feet away from me when I met his gaze. He wiggled his eyebrows and gave me his tight-lipped, lopsided smile. That smile had an air of all-knowing, like he was telling me I could have everything I wanted and I already had everything I needed to get it, if I could just figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I’m like FP in the way Betty describes in this chapter. Extreme. It’s all or nothing for me, no middle ground. Did I take it too far? Did I delve in too deep? Was the backstory I decided on too much? Probably “yes” on all accounts. But there I went.
> 
> [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/165166282120/the-con-extended-chapter-notes) on [tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Next chapter: the double date, robots, a motorcycle, and a possible curveball.
> 
> All of your bookmarks, subscriptions, kudos, and comments are totally and completely appreciated. I hope it doesn’t come off as phony when I say that because I really do mean it. It means so much to me that anyone even cares. Thank you.


	5. The Robots

“So, Betty, do you get to be in _The Nutcracker_?”

Sabrina. That was her name. The person who had asked the question. Jughead’s new…friend. Actually, she’d kindly informed us that we could call her _Sab_. Since we all had little nicknames, she’d said it only made sense for her to fit in and take one on, too. I didn’t agree. I didn’t think it made any sense. But maybe I was just being petty.

I hated her already. Mostly because I didn’t actually hate her. I’d been judgy when she said she’d go by ‘Sab’ for the night. Truth be told, I’d judged her entirely based on the fact that she was Jughead’s date. They had a seminar class together at SAIC. She was more of a classic art school hipster, specializing in the field of Visual Communication Design, creating the whimsy kind of stuff that got pinned virally on Pinterest and reblogged on Tumblr. She’d just told us about how she and Jughead were thinking about collaborating on something for a semester project; a short story of his coupled with her visual media. I wanted to throw myself out a window.

Not even halfway through the double date with Sabrina, Jughead, Archie, and myself—the one Jughead had suggested about two weeks prior—and I hated her for being completely nice and friendly to me. She was petite with short platinum blonde hair and light blue eyes. Pint-sized and cute as a button with her hipster fashion sense: a cropped top paired with acid wash high-waisted shorts, knee-high socks, and Hunter booties. If she was any indication of Jughead’s type, well, my cause was useless.

_Jesus Christ, help me out a little, would you?_

“Yes,” I finally replied. I didn’t _get_ to be in _The Nutcracker_. I was _required_ to be in it. _The Nutcracker_ was the most exciting production that The Joffrey Ballet put on all year, at the most exciting time of the year. “But the auditions and rehearsals for that production won’t be for a while.”

Whenever I met new people, there were always follow up questions once I revealed my profession as that of a ballet dancer. Not many people outside the dance world knew cold hard facts about the secret lives of bunheads.

“Do you expect to have a big role?” Sabrina asked. “Like Clara or the Sugar Plum Fairy?”

I chuckled. “No. One of students from the Joffrey Academy is usually chosen to be Clara and the Sugar Plum Fairy is always a principal dancer. I’ve been Clara—or Marie, in Joffrey’s case—before when I was younger, as a student. I’ve been one of the Snowflakes the last two years. The Joffrey premiered a new version of _The Nutcracker_ last season though, and Marie is a principal role now, too. It’s incredible. It’s very relatable. Very Chicago, actually.”

Maybe I’d already decided that I hated Sabrina for reasons that were unfair, but every opportunity to talk about ballet to someone who was unfamiliar with it was an opportunity to advertise it to them. The average person didn’t know about _rond de jambes_ exercises or how important having the correct shaped toe box in pointe shoes was, but they usually seemed interested enough when put in the situation to talk to a ballet dancer. It was a wonder that the company didn’t have dancers carry business cards to hand out, because I felt like I was constantly talking up how great we were.

“Aw,” Archie chimed in, “can I start calling you ‘Snowflake’ from now on?”

The free word-of-mouth advertising that I did wasn’t always effective though. My teaser about the new Chicago-centric _Nutcracker_ clearly did nothing for Archie if all he’d gotten out of my spiel was my usual corps role.

“Do you appreciate it when people call you _Archibald_?” I replied, my voice full of venom.

He wrinkled his nose. “No.”

“Well there’s your answer,” I responded.

Archie shrugged and returned to the task in front of him, snapping small plastic gear pieces into place. Rather than being out on the town or on a boring and awkward dinner date, we were in the workshop area of a hobbyist store in Lakeview that sold kits and parts to make toy robots. The storefront was closed but we’d come in for a two-hour stretch that was called Robot Date Night, where people on dates spent the evening constructing toy robots, drinking local beer, and eating Chicago Mix popcorn, all while a robot-themed movie was projected on the workshop’s side wall to complete the ambience.

It was all part of Archie’s big plan. Robot Date Night had been his suggestion for the double date. Doing a partnered team-building activity in close quarters was far too intimate for a casual double date—everyone else that was there looked like they were _couples_ that had been together for a while—and that was exactly why Archie had insisted on it. Archie and I had hung out quite a few times. We’d gotten to know each other and we’d become fast friends. We had to work together on our robot, helping each other sort the pieces and get them in place, and it was the perfect opportunity to show Jughead how close we’d gotten so quickly.

Jughead had been the one to suggest a double date to me in the first place—for us to act as buffers for each other—but he’d done what he could to resist spending the night making robots. In typical Jughead fashion, he had complaints when Archie came up with the idea: it was too nerdy (especially for a jock like Archie, he’d teased), it wouldn’t be fun, and why couldn’t we just try to find a diner like Pop’s? In the end, Jughead only relented when Archie revealed that the movie choice for the night was _2001: A Space Odyssey_ , a cinematic masterpiece, Jughead’s favorite Stanley Kubrick film.

Archie and I were working on the gearbox of our tabletop robot, locating pieces in the kit and snapping them into place. It was going pretty fast and I didn’t think we were going to need the full two hours to complete it. Back in middle school, in the moments when I hadn’t been obsessing over dance, I’d spent free time in my dad’s garage, helping him restore a muscle car. I was well acquainted with fouetté turns and promenade timing and pas de bourrées, but I also knew about engines and timing belts and oil filters. The motor of the toy robot we were assembling was much more basic than the engine of a car. It was so elementary, in fact, that the colorful box that the parts had come in said it was for _ages 8 and up_.

When Archie was done enclosing the wires of the motor in between two small yellow plastic pieces, I handed him the connector to the first piece we’d put together, the battery module. If we’d assembled the motor properly, hooking it up to the battery would make one of the metal rods in our gearbox spin. When our robot was complete and fully functional, it would be an ugly little thing that did nothing more than roll around on a flat surface.

“I didn’t think you were a monstrosity kind of girl, Betty,” Jughead piped up, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

He was talking about the robot that Archie and I were building. With the kit we’d chosen, four different modes were possible, and we were configuring the ‘beast’ mode.

“Ooh, that’s where you’re wrong, Jughead Jones,” I responded with a smug smile. “I’m all about the beast within.”

Jughead let out a low chortle as he looked to the ceiling and shoved the popcorn in his mouth. When Archie snapped the yellow plastic connector of the motor and the white plastic connector of the battery module together, a whirring sound filled our side of the workbench as the rod began to spin.

“Cool!” Archie proclaimed with all the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. If he was a real puppy his tail would have been wagging.

Mindful of our company, I flashed him the flirtiest smile I could muster up. Archie winked at me in a _wait until you see what I’m up to_ kind of way as he unsnapped the plastic pieces to conserve the battery.

“You can follow instructions as well as a third grader,” Jughead said dryly as soon as he was done chewing his popcorn. “Congratulations, Arch.”

I took a sip of my mostly ignored beer—I was so caught up in getting the gearbox done that I’d hardly looked up from the small pieces on the table—and waited for Archie’s reaction. He was distracted, his palms downturned to his jeans. Instead of pouting over Jughead’s rude comment, Archie nudged my shoulder with his and didn’t miss a beat, “Nah, I think it was all Betty.”

I nudged Archie back and brought an elbow up on the worktop, resting my chin in my hand and hiding my smirk behind my palm. Archie felt over his pockets and then hovered over his counter stool momentarily as he reached in both of his back pockets. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair and he reached into both pockets. Although he was distracted, Archie still managed to flash me his lopsided grin.

“Aw,” Sabrina cooed and touched Jughead’s arm, and I felt my heart rate rise when she left it there and he didn’t make any attempt to move away. “Aren’t they adorable, Juggie?”

Maybe it was the whole hating her just because she existed thing, but her use of Jughead’s specialized nickname made me see red. That felt proprietary to me—inner circle only—and I couldn’t believe someone I’d known for like an hour thought it was okay to say his name that way. It was Archie’s fault, really. He’d let a ‘Juggie’ slip when we were picking out our robot kits earlier in the evening.

But instead of getting on _Sab’s_ case about something that probably wasn’t a big deal (I was just jealous and I didn’t even know how Jughead felt about it—I didn’t even know if he considered _me_ to be inner circle, I’d just been the one to start calling him that years ago), I brought my attention back to Archie. His gaze shifted back and forth between his lap and his jacket. He looked confused.

“Hey,” I wondered, “are you okay?”

“I think I forgot my phone in the car,” he answered, looking up at me with those endearing hazel eyes of his. “But I don’t remember taking it out of my pocket.”

“Oh. You want to go get it?” I asked.

“Yeah. Sorry. I…” he trailed off. After a pause, he posed a question, “Can you help me find it?”

“Sure.”

We put our jackets on and were out of the workshop space in a flash. Archie’s footsteps followed me to the entrance. A chime attached to the door sounded as I pushed it open and walked through the threshold. I made sure to kick the doorstopper into place so we could get back in the store. I didn’t look back at Archie and we didn’t speak until we were outside, but I knew he was behind me because I heard the clunk of the door against the rubber stopper. The weather had turned and taken the heat with it. Like most September nights in Chicago, the air was humid and breezy.

Archie fell into step beside me once we were off the sidewalk and onto the asphalt, crossing Sheffield Avenue to where his car was parked. I hadn’t questioned why he needed my help before we left the workshop. It was a welcome escape, to get a moment away from Jughead and his date. And anyway, Archie and I had settled into a rhythm since we began our con. In our roleplaying, we appeared solitary in front of Jughead. Archie always had a plan. I suspected that getting me outside was no different.

“Did you _really_ leave your phone?” I wondered.

His vehicle, a forest green Jeep Cherokee from the early 2000’s, was just across the street from the entrance. It was a Thursday night in Lakeview and metered parking had been plenty when we’d arrived. As it got later, cars began to line up all along both sides of the street; the toy store was within walking distance of Wrigley Field, and locals who knew the neighborhood were always trying to keep their parking costs down when they went to Cubs games. A smirk appeared on Archie’s face as he unlocked the doors with the press of a button on his keychain.

“I left it,” he admitted, “but on purpose.”

After walking around to the passenger side and pulling the door open, I answered, “I don’t understand.”

Archie’s phone was in plain sight, in one of the cup holders of the middle console. With his long reach, all he had to do was reach over the driver’s seat to get it. He grabbed it quickly, and I opted not to trouble myself with climbing into the SUV.

“I figured that we should come out here if things are going really bad,” Archie told me. “Or really good.”

“Okay…well…” I was still confused and we weren’t even an hour into our double date. Could it be anything other than bad if he was pulling me outside so early? “How do you think things are going?”

“They’re going good!” he proclaimed, pocketing the phone. Archie had certainly had a few ‘flash in the pan’ moments lately, convincing me that his ideas were worth pursuing and that he wasn’t as dense as he let on—I hadn’t even realized that he’d been acting back in the workshop, fake searching for his phone. But he wasn’t in the middle of one of those moments. If he had been, he would have known to use _well_ instead of _good_. “Jug seems totally uncomfortable. He’s not really into that girl, you know. She’s just a distraction.”

We were both standing near the tail light on the driver’s side of the Jeep when I spoke again, “They seem kind of cozy. If she calls him ‘Juggie’ one more time, I might take someone out.”

Archie snorted, then laughed at me. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“Did you not just hear me? When I said I’d take someone out, I didn’t specify that it had to be _her_.” I narrowed my eyes at Archie. “I could take out _your_ knees. How do you think your football coach would take to that?”

“Betty,” Archie said my name and put a hand on my shoulder without any intention of answering the question. “Calm down. We’re in control here.”

“ _Archie_ ,” I countered, sneering his name. “This is your idea of control? You told me jealousy got the best of everyone—and yeah—now _I’m_ jealous, and Jughead is all cozy with that pretty art school girl that probably loves all the same things he does.”

“Are you not seeing what I’m seeing?” Archie clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Okay, first of all, Betty, she’s like…a version of you. A generic subpar version of you.”

Through my counseling sessions with Dr. Donahue, I’d gotten the solid advice that comparing myself to other girls and thinking of them as my competition was a surefire way to plant doubts into my self-confidence. Her advice went not just for ballet, but the other parts of my life, too. One of the framed quotes on her walls was actually sound advice from a different kind of doctor, Dr. Seuss: _Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You._

So I hated to even think about comparing myself to Sabrina, even if she really was the competition. I didn’t want to put her down, and I didn’t want Archie to do so either, just to make me feel better. I was in brand new territory. I thought that I was a pretty good person, decent, at the very least. I had a conscience. But I’d never had to spend any time with the girls Jughead was interested in dating. Sabrina had been nothing but nice to me and yet just breathing the same air as her pissed me off.

“And second,” Archie interrupted my thoughts before I could scold him and tell him to use kinder words in talking about Sabrina, for her sake _and_ mine. He tugged gently at my wrist, signaling for us to cross the street back to the store. “If anyone on this date is cozy, it’s you and me. That’s why Jug keeps looking at you. And he ain’t looking at me the way he’s looking at you. There’s no way he isn’t into you.”

“You think so?” I asked hopefully as we made our way to the storefront entrance.

My date took my elbow and positioned me so that I was right in front of the door. He turned me around, so that I was facing him, our shoulders square to each other. Archie tilted his chin downward, giving me a small nod. “Trust me, Snowflake.”

“Tell me what we’re really doing out here,” I requested.

I did appreciate the breather but I still didn’t see the point to Archie’s intentional forgotten cellphone blunder.

“Remember when I said that we needed to get here before they did?” Archie recalled our mid-afternoon text conversation. 

“Yeah?”

We had arrived before Jughead and Sabrina at Archie’s insistence. He’d said that seating arrangements were important, because there would be other couples, too, and it wouldn’t be a proper double date if the four of us weren’t sitting around the workbench together. I’d met up with Archie at his apartment, met his roommate, and then we’d driven to the workshop together. I’d even asked what the point of him driving was when the place was only one neighborhood down from where he lived, but that had just been explained by the cellphone ploy. The cellphone ploy itself still needed clarification though.

“Well, right now we are standing in the perfect spot—the only spot—where Juggie has a clear sightline of outside.” Archie took one more step toward me and tentatively fastened his arms around my waist. “Once he starts to wonder what’s taking so long, he’ll see us out here.”

 _Ah_. It clicked with me all at once: Archie wanted us to show off.

The workshop area was in the back of the store. There were big windows at the front of the store, with the blinds open, but all of the display cases and shelves stacked with robot fanfare and supplies obstructed the view from inside to outside. Archie was right though, there was one clear sightline from the workshop through a pathway between shelves that led to the outside: through the tinted full glass panel of the door. And it was from the spot where Jughead was sitting.

“So that’s what you meant about important seating arrangements,” I spoke and moved my elbows so that they were on top of his. “Your dedication to this project is impressive, Archie.”

His eyes remained fixed through the glass door into the shop while he laughed at my remark, and then he responded, “I might…I might kiss you.”

“Oh,” I answered a little weakly but still nodded. “Okay.”

“Tell me now if you don’t want me to,” Archie urged, sensing the tremor in my voice. “If we do this, there’s no going back. It means that our con is moving forward, like, completely. You can still call this whole thing off. But it’s probably your last chance.”

Ever since Labor Day weekend, I’d been spending time with Archie, and of course I’d thought about what we were doing, what we were trying to pull off. I’d thought about what we were working up to, how far we would have to take it. Kissing Archie was pretty low on the list of possible extremes. There was no pulling off our con if it was obvious that we weren’t interested in each other as more than friends.

“Don’t worry about me, Arch,” I reassured him. “I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to this. And I didn’t start this to just…give up. I’m a Cooper. I quit rarely, if ever.”

I was trying to approach the con and my feelings for Jughead in the same way that I approached dance: to put in the hard work, to go after what I wanted, without overthinking things and without losing myself. It was a challenge, like dance was a challenge every day. But the rewards, those ten minutes on stage when I got to be exactly who I wanted to be, they far outweighed the risks. And I’d only ever gotten what I really wanted when I gave my all and rose to the occasion.

“That’s the spirit!” Archie’s tone suggested approval. He added quickly, “I might put my tongue in your mouth.”

“Wait, wha—”

Too late. Archie’s lips were on mine in an instant. When I closed my eyes and grabbed onto his shoulder, I instinctively parted my lips and his tongue followed, brushing up against my own. I pulled back for a second as I got my footing right and he tightened his grip on my waist. My breath caught in my throat when he ran his tongue along the inside of my bottom lip.

Like a lot of things about Archie, kissing him was nice. It wasn’t sloppy or suffocating. It wasn’t something to write home about but it wasn’t a chore either. And unsurprisingly, it did nothing to conflict with my emotions, of who I really wanted to be kissing. The only bad thing about it was that it made me feel like I was sixteen again. I felt a little bit tingly after. Kissing a very cute Archie Andrews wasn’t anything to complain about. No wonder he was such a ladies’ man. He was a great kisser.

He peered down at me once our mini make out session ended, his brown eyes searching my green eyes for a reaction, if what he’d done for our cause was okay. When I flashed him a smile, he pulled me into a hug against his chest and I inhaled the mixed fragrance of laundry detergent and his cologne. Since my back was to the door of the store, I didn’t know if our make out session had garnered any attention or if they were just empty kisses. Well, they were empty kisses anyway. But they were supposed to be empty _with a purpose_.

With my cheek pressed to the cotton of Archie’s collared shirt, I wondered, “Do you think he saw?”

“Definitely. He’s looking right at us and he looks kinda pissed off,” Archie gave me the status update on the _he_ in question: Jughead. “I guess we should go back inside.”

When we returned to the workshop, we hopped back onto our counter stools. I didn’t hesitate to scoot my stool as close to Archie as possible and he didn’t hesitate to put his arm around me and squeeze my shoulder before we got back to our robot.

“Oh, you two.” Sabrina looked up from two plastic pieces she was attaching and smiled sweetly at us. The robot she and Jughead were building was even simpler than the model Archie and I had chosen. They were sitting close together for the construction of their ‘bubble bot’ robot, too, but Jughead had warned us all that he wasn’t as interested in building anything as he was in the motion picture that was projected against the wall.

I played along perfectly to Sabrina’s fawning over how cute she thought Archie and I were, smiling back at her. Then I smiled at Jughead. Or tried to, anyway. He didn’t make eye contact with me. He wasn’t even focused on the movie. Instead, he looked vacantly at the popcorn in front of him, and just as Archie had said, he looked none too pleased. Jughead usually carried a hint of a scowl on his face, but he looked like he was stewing, as pissed as I had felt when Sabrina called him ‘Juggie’. He didn’t meet my gaze for at least another five minutes as the robot building resumed and he put in a little effort to help Sabrina with their robot.

But I noticed the way he looked at Archie. The looks were laced with a little anger and maybe even a hint of jealously. Maybe _he_ was even more obvious than I had been when Sabrina grabbed onto his arm. I still didn’t know if he was interested in me, but maybe he was a little bit curious. And for that, I knew I owed Archie. I knew how much I appreciated him, too. Our con might be dumb and obnoxious, but it showed the signs of being effective.

  


\-----

  


Another weekday morning, another knock at the front door by Jughead. To be fair, it was polite of him to still knock rather than just barging in whenever he felt like it. I knew Chic had given him a key. Instead of standing in the doorway and sarcastically curtseying like the very first morning he’d knocked—I only had one free hand to open the door, with the other holding blonde hair firmly in place—I didn’t wait for Jughead to follow me inside. It was still early. I hadn’t even gotten around to starting breakfast yet. He’d caught me in the middle of my morning routine. I was still getting ready, standing at the sliding mirrored doors of the coat closet in the entryway, working my hair into two tight French braids for the full day of ballet ahead. Being a bunhead by trade didn’t necessarily mean I had to have my hair in a bun for each day of company class and rehearsal. It just had to be out of my face.

“Morning, Betts,” he greeted flatly.

My response was equally monotonous. “Morning.”

“Are you about to head out?” Jughead asked.

“No,” I answered as I tied off the second braid. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

That brought a tiny smirk to his face, faint traces of almost-dimples at the corners of his mouth. In the reflection of the mirror, I saw him step toward the kitchen. “Perfect. Neither have I. Come on, let’s get breakfast. I’ll give you a lift.”

I rolled my eyes, knowing the undertone of an ulterior motive. “You just want an excuse to take your motorcycle for a ride on the Kennedy into the Loop, don’t you?”

It was clear that he intended to take his bike rather than the L when his usual Sherpa jacket was replaced by leather. It was black and biker in style, but unlike the jacket he’d worn for only a few months as a teenager, there were no snake patches.

“Are you saying ‘no’ to free breakfast now?” Jughead’s voice was full of disbelief.

When I joined him in the kitchen, he had already lifted my packed dance bag onto his shoulder from the chair at the table where I’d set it down earlier. I got the feeling that he’d already decided in his mind before he made his way up the stairs that we were going to have breakfast together. I had my free will. Jughead couldn’t force me to do anything. But he wasn’t asking me as much as he was telling me.

I sighed. “I didn’t realize it was going to be free.”

He took that as my ‘yes’ and smirked again. “Excellent.”

Over the weekend, Jughead had gotten on a bus for a short trip to Toledo to retrieve his prized possession, his motorcycle, and drove it back because he was fully settled in Chicago. He’d gotten a job at the Papyrus inside Water Tower Place, which was an interesting visual—Jughead in the brown apron with the pink logo on it, selling stationery and greeting cards to tourists, curling ribbons with craft scissors, and wrapping gifts for them in Manila paper. But then again, his thinly veiled sarcastic smiles and _Romeo + Juliet_ era DiCaprio haircut would probably make the yuppie moms swoon. He’d said that his manager didn’t mind if he kept the beanie on though, so it was probably a no go on his broody heartthrob potential.

Besides the visual, it was hard to imagine Jughead, who’d already had a decent writing job in Toledo, working a retail job while he was in school to master his craft and flesh out his first novel. There was no shame in working retail, of course there wasn’t, and because he was Jughead, he took it in stride. A job was a job, even if he hated it. It was only temporary. The hours were flexible around his class schedule, and it wasn’t like he wanted to produce online content for another news station anyway. So he was in the full swing of things: back in school, back to the part-time workforce with no benefits, and back with his best friend.

Jughead had seamlessly reintegrated himself into Chic’s life…and mine as well. As I’d suspected before his move, he spent an absurd amount of time on our couch. I wondered if Tomoko felt like she had to share her boyfriend with his best friend back in the picture. The boys acted as if the living room was Jughead’s old tree house. Jughead recorded documentaries on our DVR (he didn’t have cable) and left his flannel shirts draped hastily over the back of the couch (to torture me, I assumed) and ate all of our snacks.

It was no wonder that while I was making a mental checklist to see if I had everything I needed for the day, he had popped open the refrigerator to assess its contents.

“Are you seriously checking what we have in our fridge on the way to breakfast?” I shook my head.

“Betty, come on.” His tone was scolding, like I should’ve known better than to ask a question with such an obvious answer. “Think about who you’re talking to here.”

I tilted my head to the side and raised my hands in the air in mock defeat.

“I’ll go grab the helmets. Safety first,” he said, tucking a few individually wrapped Cracker Barrel slices into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and adjusting my dance bag on his shoulder. “Meet me outside in a few?”

“Okay.”

“You should put a jacket on,” he advised me just as he was headed out the door, Docs thudding against the tile as usual. “The wind gets cold on the bike.”

There wasn’t much more for me to do in terms of getting ready. But I took the few minutes that Jughead left me with to gather my wits. I’d gained a new confidence around Jughead as of late. I was talking to him more and not letting his presence dictate where I hung out in my own home. In one of his moments of brilliance, Archie had reminded me that the whole point of our con was _for_ Jughead. If we were successful, then I would be spending a lot of time with him, because that was what I wanted. Archie had a lot to do with my new found confidence, because he was there for me. He was on my side.

But I found myself alone, without Archie, with Jughead waiting for me for a motorcycle ride and breakfast, first thing on a Monday morning. The fourteen-year-old version of me would have freaked out. Hell, last month’s version of me would have freaked out. I felt like a ball of tightly wound nervous excitement.

Jughead already had the engine running and his helmet on when I met him in the alley. He handed me my dance bag, which I draped like a messenger bag over an opposite shoulder and hip, then dropped my keys in it.

“You mind?” he spoke with his voice raised over the hum of the engine. He had a few items in his hand: his beanie, a Moleskine journal with a pen tucked into it, and a tattered copy of Tim O’Brien’s _The Things They Carried_. Jughead gestured them at my bag. “It’s tough to ride with a backpack when I’ve got a passenger.”

The gray wool felt soft and worn between my fingers. It felt powerful, being put in charge of his precious security blanket, even if it was just for the ride. I shoved his possessions into the bottom of my bag for safekeeping and zipped it closed. Jughead unhooked his spare helmet from the handlebar it had been resting on and held it out to me as he took a seat on the motorcycle and swung a leg over. I wanted to ask how he was going to get everything home at the end of the day without a backpack—both helmets, the beanie, and the books—but I figured that he had already worked that out for himself and it wasn’t really my problem. The ride and the offer for breakfast had been his idea, after all.

I was thankful that I’d decided on French braids as I fit the helmet over my head and ears—no need to worry about helmet hair or a crushed bun.

“Hop on, Cooper,” Jughead instructed as he flicked the kickstand up with the heel of his boot, taking control of the handle bars and reversing the bike a few inches back, closer to me. “We’ve got pancakes to get to.”

So we’d made it to the hard part. The part where I had to get behind him and hold on for dear life. I took a deep breath and got onto the motorcycle, feet easing onto the back pegs and shuffling forward until I was right up behind him, knees hovering near his hips. Being one of those girls on the back of a hog had never really been one of my fantasies. But being up close and personal with the leather jacket and gloves, the purr of the engine and the temporary gas fumes, I totally understood the fuss. They were _damn sexy_ —both Jughead and the bike. Too sexy for eight in the morning.

All my built-up confidence evaporated like the gas fumes. I was left with only my nervous energy. When Jughead looked back over his shoulder at me, the way the helmet framed his face, with the visor still up, gave me butterflies in the pit of my stomach. The blue of his eyes was so deep and his cheekbones were so architectural. 

“Uh…” he began but trailed off. He rubbed at the back of his neck briefly before bringing his visor down to seal his face from the wind. Strange, because as I’d learned over the years, rubbing at the back of his neck was something he usually did when he was nervous. “If your hands get cold, you can put them in my pockets.”

Jughead didn’t drive the motorcycle like he was nervous but my hands did get cold. When we took off down the block, my grip on his slim waist had been loose. As we got nearer to the onramp, I was close enough to smell his uniquely Jughead scent. When we were on the Kennedy Expressway, weaving in and out of traffic, my hands were pressed firmly against his torso through the lining of his jacket pockets. I could feel every intake of breath through his ribcage and the flex of the muscles in his core as he followed the curves of the road.

The cold I could handle. It was the whipping of the wind that was hard to deal with on the bike. It felt like pins and needles, sharp and short, on different places of the body in quick succession. I’d taken Jughead’s advice and worn a jean jacket over the leotard and skater skirt that I’d settled on when I’d gotten dressed. My legs took the brunt of the sting, only wearing Lycra tights that were most suitable for dance. I’d planned my outfit for company class and a ride on the L, not for feeling up Jughead’s abs on the back of his motorcycle.

A headache quickly formed in my temple before we even hit the circle interchange to Congress Parkway. The combination of Jughead driving so fast, the bite and sting of the wind, being wrapped around his leather-clad back, and my natural state of being uncomfortable around him made me feel queasy. I was happy to escape the back of the motorcycle when he pulled into a parking garage on the corner of Randolph and Wabash, a short walk to the place he’d chosen for breakfast inside Prudential Plaza, just across the street from Millennium Park. It was a chain diner, so it was nothing like Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe, but I gathered that Jughead chose it because it was close to where we both needed to be after breakfast.

Jughead took his belongings back as soon as we were parked. The first thing he did was fasten his beanie back over the thick black waves of his hair. Then he took his own helmet in one hand and took back the one I’d been wearing, and shoved the rest of his stuff into it. When we fell into step together on the street, he assured me that the pins and needles were a temporary sensation, as if I were considering getting my own motorcycle, or that I would be spending more time on his. But my shoulders still slumped and I felt awful when he excused himself to go to the restroom once we’d placed our orders. The endgame plan, in an alternate universe where he liked me back, was to date him. But how was that ever going to happen if I couldn’t even function like a normal human being around him? I couldn’t do or say anything without thinking about what he was thinking about me.

Taking the phone from my pocket and navigating to the call log screen, I tapped the screen to dial the first contact listed. The name appeared more than once, descending down the screen. It seemed all my calls were to the same person lately.

Four solid tones rang. I was almost certain my call would end up being directed to voicemail but the final ring was cut short, followed by a long pause, and then, “—lo?”

“Hey, Archie,” I kept my voice light. I’d hoped he would pick up, and just my luck, he did.

Archie groaned. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I know that I’ve been awake for an hour.”

“Well I’m not on ballerina time, I’m on middling college student football player time. No two-a-days, _no wakey_ ,” Archie huffed with a scratchy voice, still half asleep. “There is a very specific reason why I’m not signed up for any classes before noon. You are seriously cramping my style here.”

“Sorry,” I apologized and cut to the chase, “listen, I need your help.”

“Betty, are you currently in a life-threatening situation? Is this an emergency?” he asked, unamused.

“No…I don’t think so.” Actually, to be honest, I wasn’t sure that I would make it through the morning meal with Jughead if I was just going to second guess everything about myself. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“Again, do you _know_ what time it is?” Archie sounded annoyed.

I began my case, “I’m at breakfast with Jughead and—”

“Stop right there,” my partner in crime cut me off. “You are out— _to eat_ —with Jughead?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that halfway to being what you want from him? How can there be a problem!” Archie exclaimed.

It was different when I didn’t have Archie beside me in front of Jughead. Archie was my point of confidence. But all alone, I was right back to where I started, uneasy and full of self-doubt. I might have made it to breakfast, but I felt like I was back to the days of being in my room, trying to be inconspicuous about what I believed to be an unrequited crush on my big brother’s best friend.

“I need you to give me the upper hand here. You’re Team Betty, right?” I spoke quickly, knowing I didn’t have much time before Jughead would be back. “Give me advice on how to make this…you know…not awkward. How should I act?”

On the other end of the line, Archie cleared his throat. “I’m going to tell you one thing that is going to make you unhappy and then I am going to hang up. You ready?”

“No, Arch, I really think—” My incomplete sentence was ended abruptly, partly because Archie groaned again out of frustration and partly because Jughead was in my line of sight, strolling back to our table.

“Stop acting, Betty,” Archie advised. “That’s your problem. Be yourself. I’m going back to bed. I’ll call you later.”

Seriously? _Be yourself_? That wasn’t helpful at all.

The line went dead and my phone chimed three times in my ear to signal that my contact had ended the call. Jughead reached the table and slid into his side of the booth. “Was that Archie?”

“Yeah.” I raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”

Jughead scoffed. “I know you well enough to know that that’s who you’ve been spending all your time with.”

“I see you about as much as I see him. You see him way more than I do.”

“Sure.” Jughead shrugged and then made a comparison, “You know, on rare occasions, I’ll let him talk me into playing those stupid hockey video games that he likes so much. But he’s been playing a different kind of hockey with you than he plays with me.”

 _Tonsil hockey_ , he meant. All the kisses Archie and I had shared had been in front of Jughead. I smirked before taking a sip of my orange juice. “We have fun together.”

Jughead spoke again, a deadpan look on his face. “Are you in love with him?”

I nearly choked on my orange juice. “Are you joking?”

He was that kind of guy, after all. Jughead’s sardonic nature meant that he was joking but serious, all at once, all the time. Jughead was the absolute last person I would expect to ask me that, unless he was truly kidding. But I didn’t see even a hint of a twinkle in his stormy eyes.

“Why would you ask me that?” I wondered. “I’ve been hanging out with him for, what, a few weeks? There’s no label on it. It’s not even serious.”

“Do you want it to be serious?” he inquired.

“Juggie,” his name left my lips with a frown, “I don’t understand where this is coming from.”

“I’m just trying to figure out if I have something to worry about,” he responded.

Was breakfast Jughead’s idea of an Archie intervention? Had that been his intention when he showed up at my door?

“Archie and I are hanging out. We’re having fun,” I reiterated. “Why would you have anything to worry about?”

“You could get hurt,” Jughead said, looking me straight in the eye. “Like I told you before, Archie’s got a good heart, but he’s still a frat boy who doesn’t know what he wants, especially if it’s just hanging out like you said. He could be keeping his options open. Whatever game it is you think you’re playing to pull one over on him, it might not work.”

I forgot to keep overanalyzing our interaction as Jughead spoke. He understood what I meant about fun with Archie. He even knew there was a game being played, and he had his own idea of how I was playing. Instead of thinking about whether I was being too obvious that I liked him, I listened carefully to what he said next. It was half threatening and half warning.

“You should make sure you’re really the one in control,” Jughead went on. “Don’t underestimate him or anyone else. You don’t want to be a flame’s lick away from burning yourself and not even know it.”

A pang struck in my chest, set off by Jughead’s words. He wasn’t using the right words, but Jughead’s words were always so thoughtful, so I knew that he was telling me something important. He wasn’t just talking about Archie and me. He was talking about himself, too. On the surface, he was saying that Archie was going to leave me high and dry. He was saying that I was going to get caught up in the way Archie and I treated each other. But that wasn’t what he meant. He was telling me not to underestimate him and what he had up his own sleeve. It wasn’t Archie, it was _him_ —it was Jughead—who was messing with my head.

Archie might be completely right, I realized. And if he was right it meant that Jughead did need a little push, that he was a little jealous, and that I had been giving him way too much credit. If Jughead didn’t know or didn’t think I was looking, he would show interest—he didn’t like Archie and me together. But one on one, his guard was up and all his implications were that I didn’t matter to him that way. To my face, he acted just as a concerned older brother figure. Jughead and I might be even more like each other than I thought. In fact, it was possible that we were just doing the same thing to each other, trying to gauge the other’s game. Whatever it was he thought about me or felt about me, he was intent on keeping it close to the vest. He’d just slipped though, when he talked about being in control.

I was pulling a con on Jughead. But was Jughead also pulling a con on _me_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Careful, Betty. Looks like you could be playing a dangerous game.
> 
> \- [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/165508946575/the-con-extended-chapter-notes) on [tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/). Follow me, ask me stuff, message me, let’s be friends, etc.  
> \- This was a P.S. two chapters ago, but maybe now it should be a PSA moving forward: I solemnly swear that Archie’s end goal is the same as mine, a Bughead endgame.  
> \- Bit of a roller coaster for Betty in this one. From jealousy to confidence to nervousness to suspicion. It is really hard to stay mum and not reveal anything that I’m building up. ;)  
> \- Next chapter: a wild Reggie appears, groceries, the suburbs, and Chic weighs in.  
> \- If you’re here, and you’re reading, thank you. It means a lot to me. Your feedback is always appreciated. Please comment! <3


	6. The Sleepover

When I met Archie’s roommate for the first time, before the double date with Jughead and Sabrina, it had been brief and in passing. We’d said ‘hello’ to each other and shaken hands, and that had been it. I hadn’t given him a second thought. When I found myself at Archie’s apartment on a Friday night, I realized that his roommate, Reggie, gave a much better first impression of himself than who he was in reality.

Archie had set up his latest plan so that I would crash his hang out with Jughead. Going along with Archie’s script, I’d taken extra clothes with me when I left the house in the morning and called him after my last rehearsal of the day. He encouraged me to make my way over to his apartment, where he and Jughead were _chillin’_ (Archie’s word choice, not mine) and told me that they had a pizza on the way. I took a quick shower at the studio before hopping on the brown line L, getting off at Paulina Station and then walking the rest of the way. The pizza beat me there. And so did Reggie.

Reggie was a frat guy in every sense of the word: loud, rambunctious, and smelled heavily of Axe body spray. He was of mixed race; tan skin, high-set cheekbones, chocolate brown eyes, and a head of black hair that was parted and slicked down. He was tall and broad-shouldered in typical football player form. He was shirtless, which I thought was a little weird, but he _was_ in his own home, so to each his own. He liked to talk about himself, so I learned that his mother managed rental properties around the city—she owned the two-flat that Reggie and Archie lived in, which was why they had rent control and could afford Roscoe Village as two college kids on partial athletic scholarship at a Division III school—and his father, like my parents, worked in print media. But unlike my parents who owned and operated a small town newspaper, his father was a sports columnist for the _Chicago Tribune_ , their official hockey beat writer that covered the Blackhawks.

While Jughead and Archie concentrated on the intense _Call of Duty_ mission in front of them (both with their shirts on, thankfully—plaid flannel for Jughead and a nondescript Henley for Archie), Reggie told me that he had similar aspirations to his father. He loved sports and he wanted to write about them, too. Reggie reminded me of a few people. He’d been the editor of his high school’s newspaper, juggling athletic and grammatical prowess, much like Chic had done. His perfect abs and arms clearly stated why he and Archie were part of the same football team and fraternity. And, though Jughead would hate the comparison, Reggie had a quick wit similar to his, too.

There were only two console controllers, so while Jughead and Archie were on their mission, Reggie and I were relegated to eating the pizza and watching. I didn’t mind because Fridays were so busy for me anyway, from the early start of my day to get to my appointment with Dr. Donahue to company class to all of my rehearsals. Going out on a Friday night had very little appeal to me during the Joffrey’s rehearsal weeks. I was content to sink into the couch and decompress, to wait until the next ‘Game Over’ to participate. Reggie, on the other hand, had a big mouth and a slew of color commentary. From the armchair, in between telling me about the journalism degree he was working on and the sports he could see himself writing about, he had quips and insults for the video gaming pair that were doing quite poorly.

“You’re the one who keeps accidentally killing me!” Jughead’s words came with a sigh, directed at Archie as they both stopped smashing buttons furiously.

They’d failed their mission.

“War is hell, Jug,” his redheaded friend retorted.

“No, Archie,” Jughead rolled his eyes and absentmindedly adjusted his beanie as he scoffed in Reggie’s direction, “hell is other people.”

Archie merely chuckled as Reggie fired back at Jughead, “Oh, save it for your manifesto, Donnie Darko.”

It was that type of exchange that had gone on between Reggie and Jughead since I’d arrived. They were like counterparts to each other, exchanging insults and pointed remarks. They’d met a few times before, because of Archie, and while it was obvious that they didn’t like each other much and were far from ever becoming friends, I couldn’t help but wonder if they admired each other. Reggie was so much of a douchebro and Jughead took pride in being a bit of a weirdo, but both of them spouted words that were cunningly clever. They tolerated each other because of Archie, but I was curious to know just how far apart they really were from potentially getting along when they had similar quips.

I had my head rested on Archie’s shoulder, my wet hair in a ponytail that was crushed against the back of the couch, growing sleepier by the minute. Jughead was on my other side. It had been strategic when I’d first sat down, so that any affection between Archie and me wouldn’t go unnoticed by the one for whom my affection really was. When Archie’s phone started buzzing in his pocket, he checked the caller ID on the touchscreen and handed me his controller, stating that it was a phone call he had to take.

Jughead restarted the game and we spent the next few minutes working together to save the Solar System from a hostile takeover. I took pride in being one of those ‘knows how to hang’ girls who knew her way around a video game controller. During the bouts of time that Chic and I had both been single at the same time, during rehearsal weeks for me, we’d spent some time in our own living room in the same situation for sibling bonding. The only difference was that it was void of any of Reggie’s annoying armchair commentary.

“You’re better at this than Archie,” Jughead said to me briefly. “You haven’t even come close to accidentally blowing me up.”

“Man, you know Andrews has gone soft when even his flavor of the month has more video game success than him,” Reggie chimed in with an obnoxious laugh. “Hey, Betty, you carrying his balls around in that little dance bag of yours?”

“Misogyny only underlines how uncomfortable you are in your own masculinity, Reggie,” Jughead paused the game to scowl at Reggie, blue eyes darkened. “But knowing you, a wannabe journalist who wants to follow professional athletes around a locker room for a living, you probably can’t even spell that word.”

“You better can it, Suicide Squad,” Reggie warned. “Or my _fist_ will follow into your _face_.”

“Oh my God,” was all I muttered, shaking my head at both of them. I didn’t have time to decide whether I should be offended by Reggie’s douchebaggery or thankful for Jughead’s aptitude to put him in his place before Archie came back, standing directly in front of the TV.

“You guys!” Archie’s voice had the full weight of his _aw shucks_ personality in it. “You will never believe the news I just got!”

“Pigs actually _can_ fly?”

“Pluto has regained its status as a planet again?”

“What?” Archie sighed, a little deflated at his friends’ sarcasm. “No…”

“Ignore them,” I told him. “What is it, Arch?”

He gave me a grateful look before he made his reveal, “I just booked a gig at Schubas Tavern!”

“Oh no,” Jughead’s lips were suddenly close to my ear, whispering so that only I could hear him, “we’re going to have to go to that thing, aren’t we?”

I jabbed him in the arm with my elbow as Archie continued earnestly, “Obviously I’m just opening for two other acts and it’s not till November so I have a good amount of time to polish my set—but still! Schubas Tavern! Do you know who’s played there and, like, had their _career_ launched there?”

“Dude, you know it’s all in good fun that we harp on your songs that make you want to slit your wrists,” Reggie softened his ribbing, though it was ribbing just the same, “you can count on me to be there.”

Jughead’s words of encouragement came next with a rub at the back of his neck, like he was nervous that his friend would suspect he didn’t fully believe the words he uttered, “Don’t quit your daydream, Arch.”

I handed the game controller back to Archie as he reclaimed his spot next to me on the couch. I leaned my head against his shoulder again and clasped my hands together. I told him, “Congratulations, Arch! I know it’s going to be great!”

“Thanks, everyone. Thanks, Betty.” His last thanks was quieter and it led to him speaking directly to me, “Do you want another piece of pizza?”

I wanted to soak in a jetted tub. I wanted to have pretty feet. I wanted to impress the ballet masters at Joffrey so that I would get the promotion to soloist, so that everything I was working so hard for wasn’t just a one-time thing in the upcoming production. Without saying a word, I shook my head against Archie’s shoulder.

I felt pretty beat. I’d just completed the fifth week of ballet rehearsal for Joffrey’s autumn program. All the choreography had long been learned and it was a matter of turning it into muscle memory, to translate it into the high art that it was, and not just go through the motions. Because I was a member of the corps de ballet, I spent more time rehearsing to _not_ be the center of attention but rather for conformity. For opening night and the rest of the first cast performances of _Giselle_ , I had my ten minutes in the spotlight with Trev. But for second cast performances, I would be in my rightful place in the corps as one of the Wilis, on stage for a large chunk of the second act but always in the background. Rehearsal had gone long for the last two days. I wasn’t sure anymore if the soreness I felt all over my body was weakness or strength.

Archie shifted the game controller so that it balanced in the center of one of his palms and he moved an arm around me. “You tired?”

“What would ever give you _that_ impression?” I asked sarcastically.

“Ooh,” his tone was teasing, “you’re very cute when you’re sassy.”

Instead of returning with another sarcastic remark, I lifted my head from his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek, turning toward his body to unclasp my hands and rest a hand on his chest. 

“Uh, Archie?” Jughead spoke up and pointed at the TV, where the game was still paused, “you do know we were in the middle of a game, right?”

Archie dropped a kiss on my shoulder and then turned his head to his boys.

“Heads up, Reginald,” Archie said before he tossed his controller in a perfect arch toward Reggie.

Reggie caught it in mid-air right before it hit him in the jaw. “ _The fuck_ , man?”

“Jesus Christ,” Jughead muttered under his breath, sensing that he was about to be left with his witty counterpart that he happened to hate.

As if on cue, Archie detached himself from me momentarily, stood up and extended his hand. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

Not _let’s go to sleep_ , not _I’ll tuck you in_ , but _let’s go to bed_. Either my mind was in the gutter or Archie thought his friends’ minds would be in the gutter and take it as an implication. I grinned up at him before I placed my palm in his and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing as he helped me stand up. He had a glint in his eyes. He knew. Oh, he was just that good.

I could practically feel the heat from Jughead’s stare on my back as Archie pulled me down the hallway and through the kitchen toward his bedroom. I thought there might have even been a look of disapproval. In Archie’s room, I waited until the door was shut behind us and the light was on before I unclenched my jaw. My laughing had bubbled to the surface by the time I dove for the bed, not even asking for permission.

“Oh my God,” I giggled against the navy blue bedspread, forgetting all about my sleepiness. “They definitely think we left to have sex in here.”

Archie’s approach to the bed was much calmer. He walked across the creaky hardwood floor and sat down beside me. “Did you see the look your boy gave me?”

So that confirmed it. There _had_ been a look of disapproval from Jughead.

“Isn’t he still dating that girl from his seminar?” I reminded Archie. “He’s not my boy.”

 _That girl._ I knew her name. Sabrina. I hated her even more than I did when Archie and I had gone on the double date with them. I didn’t know how casual or serious they were—and I didn’t want to know. It felt more than ever like Jughead was pulling his own con when all I got from him were mixed signals. I would catch his jealous and disapproving glances when Archie and I were together, but he was also hanging out with Sabrina. Jughead didn’t have a large social circle, because Jughead didn’t like many people, so the fact that Sabrina had made the heavy rotation list as of late spoke volumes to me. She’d even been at my brother’s place—at _my_ place—chumming it up with Chic and Jughead when I’d arrived home one afternoon, effectively putting a damper on my good mood from rehearsal wrapping up early that day. God, I hated her. I really fucking hated her.

“Not _yet_ ,” Archie corrected me, ignoring my first comment. “Anyway, I don’t even think he wants to be my friend anymore. It’s just childhood loyalty at this point. He only hangs out to keep an eye on you.”

I beamed. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“And now we’re in here…torturing him.” I burst into giggles again once I’d said it, pretty pleased with myself.

Jughead was playing right into our hands. He’d warned me about getting burned. He’d implied that he had a clue about the game I was playing. He’d thrown a petite blonde in my face. I was convinced that he was up to his own game, which was exactly why Archie and I had taken to laying it on pretty thick in front of him.

He might have been aware that some sort of game was being played, but there was no way he knew about my alliance with Archie. He either thought that Archie was gaming me, or that I was gaming Archie. Based on what he’d said on the morning that I realized that he was playing his own game, there was no chance he had a clue that Archie and I had been conspiring in a con _together_ and against him for the last month.

“Shh, Betty, do you have to laugh so loud?” Archie tried to shush me. “They’ll think you’re laughing at my size.”

Really? He had to bring his dick into the discussion?

“Don’t you share a locker room with Reggie?” I looked up at the ceiling, then looked at him with a smirk playing on my lips, “Doesn’t he already know _exactly_ what you’re packing?”

Archie’s jaw dropped. “I cannot believe you just said that.”

It was true though. The male dancers in the ballet company weren’t very far removed from the habits of football players—not to mention that both groups wore a ton of spandex—so I knew that everything was laid bare in the locker room. Locker room nudity was merely a facet of being an athlete.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” I chided him with a double entendre.

“Okay, new topic,” Archie made a face of disgust before he stood up again and shuffled over to the closet. He pushed the sliding door open and revealed a dresser beside the hanging clothes. “Do you want other clothes to sleep in?”

I looked down at my outfit. He’d said it would be a quiet night in and I’d dressed accordingly. I had on leggings and a fitted long sleeved v-neck. The bra I had on underneath was actually a bralette, so it didn’t have a wire. I could just shed my pants and sleep comfortably.

“Maybe some shorts?” I answered. “And do you have an extra toothbrush?”

“There should be one in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom,” Archie nodded as he threw an old, clean pair of shorts at me, and added a shirt for good measure. Both articles of clothing had faded varsity lettering on them that spelled out _Niles West Football_ , the suburban high school football team that he’d played for as a teenager.

Because Archie and Reggie’s first floor apartment layout was of the traditional two-flat floor plan, with the foyer entrance into the living room at the front with the formal dining room off to the side, and the bedrooms and bathroom off the kitchen at the back of the apartment, there was low risk of running into either Jughead or Reggie out in the hallway while they were firmly planted in front of the TV. Archie and I took turns going to the bathroom. When I returned to the bedside with clean teeth, sans pants, and plus Archie’s old clothes that were way too baggy on me, he’d already changed the lighting situation. It was dim in the room with the lamp on his nightstand as the only source of light, casting shadows over the posters of _Dog Day Afternoon_ and the Brian Urlacher-era Chicago Bears. Archie was already in bed beneath the duvet.

“So I was the sleepy one but you beat me to the bed?” I clicked my tongue. “How does that work?”

“Come on in, sleepyhead.” Archie flashed me his trademark grin and pulled back the blanket, revealing plaid sheets and his bare sculpted chest.

Wow. Forget my dancer’s legs. Forget the chest Reggie had been showing off. Archie’s abs could be sliced with a pizza cutter and served with light refreshments. I thought that his ex-girlfriend for whom he’d written all those breakup songs for, and would sing at Schubas Tavern in five weeks, regretted their separation for at least six very chiseled reasons.

As I’d gotten to know Archie over the last month, I started to understand his appeal more and more. It was no wonder he could get away with being a fuckboy when he was a football player (with the body to prove it), boy band cute, and always up for some fun. But he’d shared a different side of himself with me, too, the side that made him a good friend. From the get go he’d been eager to help and fiercely loyal. He was the schemer between the two of us, coming up with the plans and making suggestions that skirted on the edge but never went too far.

It couldn’t be easy for him. Being loyal to me and to our con meant that he’d had to tone down his usual activities. He was an eligible bachelor in a city full of girls (and guys) who would love to dance with him at a party or gladly do the morning walk of shame after a casual hookup with him. If he weren’t involved in helping me with my Jughead situation, he would surely be talking himself up to some other girl, using his brown puppy dog eyes to convince her to take an ill-fated chance on him.

“What are you thinking about?” he wondered once I was lying next to him and the light was out.

It had taken me an extra moment to get into bed because I was admiring Archie’s torso and then thinking about how great he was. I pulled the hair tie from my tresses and let it encircle my wrist, shaking my hair out before settling down against the pillow. “I was thinking…I wish Jughead would drop a bomb already,” I lied.

The lie was reasonable enough. The enigma that was Jughead Jones had become the most frustrating person in my life. Just because I thought Archie and I were playing our con better than him, it didn’t mean that Jughead was bad at the version of the con that he was playing. I still couldn’t get a proper grasp on what he was thinking or how he felt. He would do things that made him seem jealous, but he would never act on his feelings for me—that is, if he even had them. He’d warned me about Archie and told me to be careful. But Jughead had never flat out told me to stay away from him.

Archie reached over and patted my shoulder under the covers. “You’re the complete package, Betty. If he doesn’t know that by now, it’s _his_ loss.”

We were both on our sides, facing each other. The contact made it feel suddenly more intimate even though I was used to Archie touching me. I scooted closer to him until he was close enough that I could hug him. He snaked an arm around my waist.

“Whatever comes of this,” my words were muffled against his chest, “I’m glad that you and I are friends now.”

I really meant it. My favorite part of the con was the friendship Archie and I had built from the time we spent together. Being his friend was akin to my friendships with Kevin and Veronica. It was both comforting and comfortable. I hadn’t expected his friendship and I hadn’t been looking for it, but having it, it felt like something that should have been there all along.

“Yeah…I’m…I’m glad about that, too,” Archie spoke slowly and let out a long audible sigh. He let go of me and switched the lamp back on. He was rested back on his elbows when he looked over at me. “Betty, I think I need to go back out to the living room.”

I squinted at him, my eyes already having adjusted to the dark. “Why?”

“I think I jumped the gun a little. I wanted the instant gratification that my plan for tonight would work,” Archie drew the words together. “I know we haven’t been friends for long but, _as your friend_ , I know that what we snuck in here to pretend to do isn’t something you would do.”

There it was again, that comfort that only my real friends could give me, Archie could give me, too. He was right. I wasn’t the type to sleep with a guy that I was just hanging out with. I’d never slept with a guy that wasn’t my boyfriend before, and even then it was a very short list.

“So you’re going to sacrifice your reputation so I can keep mine?” I asked.

Archie didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who had trouble sealing the deal. He wouldn’t be referred to by one of his closest friends as a fuckboy if he did.

“Yeah, and…”

“And?”

“ _And_ ,” Archie continued, “Jug is probably my oldest friend. Even if we’re not best friends, if I’m right about how I think he feels about you then he’d never forgive me for…”

 _For having sex with you._

Archie didn’t have to finish the sentence. I knew exactly what he meant. It also made me think that he was selling himself short when he let people think that there wasn’t more to him than a good-looking jock who wrote three-chord songs. He was a good guy with the best intentions for his friends, getting protective of both Jughead and me. It was sweet that he wanted the two of us to end up together because of his meddling, because of a con he’d formulated, and also wanted to maintain a certain purity. The con was dependent on Jughead’s reactions, dependent on the impression that we gave him. But Archie didn’t want to diminish any of my character and he didn’t want Jughead to be hurt by our actions.

“Juggie is lucky to have you as his _brother_ , Arch,” I told Jughead’s redheaded friend— _my_ redheaded friend—and nodded my chin toward the door. “What are you going to tell them?”

Archie chuckled. “I’ll say that you took ‘going to bed’ literally, flopped onto the mattress laughing, then got under the covers and fell asleep quickly.”

“A prude _and_ a grandma, huh?”

He got out of bed and walked over to the closet to retrieve a new shirt. “What would you like me to say?”

“At least say we made out a little bit,” I said with a cheeky grin.

“Jughead is going to kill someone before he leaves here tonight,” Archie responded with a grimace. “Me for leaving him out there with Reggie to come in here with you. Or Reggie…for being Reggie.”

I pulled the duvet up to my ears. “Um, have you even met him? You seriously think Jug could take two college football players?”

Jughead was scrappy, sure. And despite being lean, I’d felt the muscles in his core when I’d been on the back of his motorcycle. But he was far from being built like a linebacker.

“Well you seem to like him a hell of a lot,” Archie countered teasingly. “And he was in a _gang_ , Betty. I think he could do some damage.”

“Archie, he was in the gang for like five minutes when he was seventeen,” I snorted. “And it’s not like they were the Sons of Anarchy.”

“It was dangerous enough that FP didn’t want him in the gang.”

“Yeah, because FP is his dad,” I reasoned. “It’s probably a good thing that as a parent he didn’t want his kid involved in gang life. That doesn’t mean the Serpents were running guns and killing anyone who got in their way. They were petty criminals, not felons.”

“Hey now, I’ve never been as close to Jug as you want to be,” Archie said when he was clothed and in front of the door. “For all I know he could be keeping a switchblade tucked beneath his coat just in case. Not sayin’, just sayin’.”

And there was ‘typical’ Archie Andrews again, slipping into his conceit of football player and frat brother. Keeping everything light and saying things he didn’t mean. A normal college kid who wasn’t sure about the direction of his life, joking about his friend’s short-lived misdirection.

“You go to sleep like I’m going to say you are already doing.” Archie had one hand on the doorknob and one in the air, pointed at me. “I’m going to go talk you up to your boy. I’ll make sure he knows that I know how you’re way too good for me.”

“He’s not my boy,” I reminded Archie, then added, “but thank you.”

As I waited for sleep to take me, I thought about Archie and me outside of the context of the con for the first time. I thought that maybe in another life things would be different. If he’d never left Riverdale as a kid, we would have grown up together, and as the boy next door, maybe he would have been my childhood best friend. If I’d never left Riverdale right before high school, maybe we would have carried that friendship into adolescence. Maybe I would have had a crush on him instead and maybe he would have broken my heart _or_ maybe he would have liked me back. Without dance, maybe I would have been a cheerleader, and he would have been on the football team, and we could’ve been Riverdale High’s power couple. It could have been nice and simple, much like Archie was simple.

Simple wasn’t a bad thing. It wasn’t complicated. Con aside, I wished things were different. After spending the better part of a month hanging out with him, part of me wished that I were falling for Archie instead of stuck on someone else. If he let me down with his usual ways, at least I knew to expect that. That would be easier. Simpler. I knew that I couldn’t wait around for Jughead forever. In all the time I’d been crushing, I hadn’t learned much about him that I didn’t already know before. I wasn’t sure what my expectations were, or what they should be, or if I should have any at all.

With Archie, I already knew that he cared about my happiness. It didn’t hurt that he was a good kisser either. Maybe Archie wouldn’t make a good boyfriend, but I had learned that when it came to his friends, he’d go the distance—he’d come through. So maybe in his case a friend was better than a boyfriend.

  


\-----

  


My favorite thing about autumn was the changing colors of the leaves. I especially liked to see those colors when it was row on row of trees simultaneously going through the transitory. Living on the northwest side of the city, the apartment that Chic and I shared was close to so many acres of the Cook County Forest Preserve, all of which had picturesque trees at this time of year. The trees I loved the most were in the Busse Woods, in between the suburban villages of Elk Grove Village and Schaumburg. To get that cinematic view, of massive trees of sugar maple and white oak, with their leaves making patchworks of breathtaking reds and oranges and yellows, it meant driving through the woods on the thoroughfare of Higgins Road rather than taking any of the freeways.

My trips there were rare, but when I saw that leaves were changing color in autumn, I made sure to make at least one trip to the northwest suburbs of Cook County. It was important to get the trip in as soon as I saw any foliage in transition, because it was quick, a _blink and you’ll miss it_ kind of thing. One week the rows of trees that surrounded the Salt Creek were enough to lose my head over and the next the leaves were rotting on the ground, leaving only empty branches until spring.

It was the reason why I found myself at the helm of Chic’s car on a Sunday afternoon. We needed groceries and I wanted to see the Busse Woods, so together we made the drive out to Schaumburg. Chic and I didn’t find much use for his car with our lives so concentrated in the Loop during the workweek, and there was always an L ride or bus route that could get us to our social destinations within city limits. But we kept the car around for groceries and shopping trips. Chic’s car was the same one he’d had when he lived in Evanston for college—an old Subaru Outback. As a firm believer in American muscle cars, our dad had resented Chic’s choice when he’d gotten it as a going-away-to-college gift, but Dad couldn’t deny its reliability. 

Our parents were overbearing, but they had passed on some practical skills to us: Chic had been immersed in the ins and outs of running a business with our mom and I’d been the one to work on cars with our dad. When Chic and I were in the car together, he always defaulted to me to drive, to listen and feel for anything that might be wrong with the car. After parking at the grocery store, when I suggested that Chic get new brake rotors installed to be on the safe side before the first snow came, he merely rolled his eyes and grabbed a shopping cart.

At the end of the aisle with baking essentials, when I dropped a bag of sugar into the cart and glanced at its contents, I scrunched my nose and laughed. “Do you realize that most of what we currently have in the cart isn’t even for us? This is practically all Jughead’s.”

Chic shrugged, unfazed. “He’s the birthday boy.”

“He doesn’t even like his birthday,” I reminded my brother.

“That’s why I’m not throwing him a surprise party,” Chic returned, “I’m making him a cake.”

“Oh,” my voice was incredulous, “ _you’re_ making him a cake?”

“Well I’m certainly paying for it,” my brother grumbled, “in more ways than one.”

When I’d woken up in the morning and ventured out to the living room, I knew immediately that something was up because Chic was dressed and ready to go, waiting for me. It would be Jughead’s birthday the next day and, rather than get the son of a lottery winner something material, Chic wanted to make it personal and give him a homemade cake. That was where I came in, because Chic didn’t know how to bake a cake. He didn’t even know what to buy to make said cake. He needed my help.

He sprung all of that on me on a Sunday morning that turned out to be anything but easy. He’d said we needed to go grocery shopping anyway, so it was no big deal to pick up a few extra things. He’d said that he would give me full credit for being the one who actually put the effort into the cake making. I’d negotiated him paying for everything—groceries that I wanted included—and a Steak ‘n Shake drive-thru visit for a vanilla milkshake, too.

I would have done it anyway, because I liked Jughead, but I felt that I was entitled to milk Chic’s predicament for what it was worth. I was neither Jughead’s best friend nor his girlfriend, and I already knew that he didn’t like his birthday anyway, so I was under no obligation to do anything for him.

“Did you get the picture I sent you?” Chic spoke again. “That’s what I want the cake to look like.”

He’d explained earlier, as we were leaving the apartment, that he wanted the cake to resemble a gigantic burger, Jughead’s food item of choice. Chic told me he would send the picture he’d saved once we were shopping, so I could better judge what I needed to bring his vision to life. I pulled my phone from my back pocket and unlocked the screen before clicking on the top notification, a picture message from Chic, then tapped on the image to enlarge it. I zoomed in on the small details to inspect how the cake should be decorated.

“We might need to make a trip to Michael’s,” I said as I moved the picture around the center of my phone’s screen. “I don’t think we’re going to find all the shades of food coloring that we need here.”

Chic’s answer was quick. “Okay.”

“And can I just say that you have got to be the sweetest best friend anyone could ever ask for?” I gushed.

The cake that Chic wanted me to make was adorable. It looked to be a chocolate cake that was sliced into three pieces, the middle piece that showed the brown unglazed cake acted as the burger patty in between two thicker pieces that were covered in a golden yellow icing—buttercream, I guessed—the hamburger buns. There were globs of icing in red and green, and some strings of white icing leaking over the sides of the buns—tomato, lettuce, and mayonnaise. As much as Jughead hated his birthday, I didn’t think he would be able to resist a cake that resembled his favorite food.

“It’s a Cooper trait, Betty,” Chic responded to my statement. “You’ve got it, too.”

Our mother had instilled serially killing with kindness in us before we knew how to read. Chic didn’t seem to know that I had my own reasons for agreeing and they weren’t at all motivated by brotherhood or friendship.

Chic was quiet for a long time, strolling along and pushing the cart as we moved into another aisle. He didn’t pay attention to what I placed in the cart. Instead, from the corner of my eye I could see him watching me, the look on his face as stone cold as an Alice Cooper who was about to delve out punishment. I stopped in the middle of the pasta aisle and turned my head to confront him, eyebrow raised.

“You got something to say to me, Chic?”

“I’m worried about you, you know,” he told me.

“I’m _fine_ , big bro,” I responded. “Rehearsals ended on such a good note last week.”

It wasn’t a lie. My rehearsals on Friday had been a complete grind, and I’d been exhausted by the time I made it over to Archie’s, but that didn’t mean that they’d gone horribly. I’d had what I thought was the best day of rehearsal so far earlier in the day on Friday, before corps rehearsal. My pas de deux was as good as it had ever been. Trev and I had gotten comfortable with the timing of our dance music on the piano in the studio, which was great, because soon rehearsals would move into the theater and we’d have to see if our timing was in sync with the orchestral conductor. The feedback from our directors, for the most part, was positive. The critiques were minor adjustments. I’d even received compliment for my second variation, which I’d been having trouble with a few weeks before.

Chic shook his head. “I’m not talking about your rehearsals.”

My brother rarely expressed any worry for me. That was just what our relationship was like. We lived with each other and we were constants in each other’s lives, but we each did our own thing. When he did worry about me it was usually because of my life as a dancer. I loved ballet. Truly, it was my only lasting love. But it was a vicious love. Ballet didn’t always love me back.

In high school, at the dance academy, we’d had a saying: _ballet is not for sissies_. Maybe it was even a little insane. Because if the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, then yeah, ballet was insane, and it took a certain kind of person to embrace that. Like any true love, sometimes ballet made me miserable. My brother could always tell.

“Oh?” I shrugged at him. “Then what?”

“I know all about your sleepover on Friday night,” Chic answered. “Jug told me all about what happened at your boyfriend’s house.”

“Archie isn’t my boyfriend,” I corrected him.

Chic gripped the push bar of the shopping cart and cringed at me. “Oh, like that makes me feel better.”

“Spare me, Chic. I literally fell asleep, and Juggie knows that, too. You and Tomoko have sleeping-optional sleepovers all the time—I run into her in the hallway—and I don’t even mention it. Whatever I do or don’t do with Archie is at my discretion. Do not hold me to some double standard. That’s not fair,” I rolled my eyes and resumed walking down the middle of the aisle. “What, are you monitoring me now? All this time you’ve been saving your overprotective older brother card for when I start hanging out with a guy that’s harmless?”

“ _No_ guy is harmless, Betty.”

“You don’t know Archie very well,” I retorted.

“You’re right. I don’t,” Chic agreed. Even during those summer visits in Riverdale, Archie had always been Jughead’s friend. Only very occasionally did the three of them hang out together. “That’s what worries me. Are you sure he’s your type? He doesn’t seem like the other guys you’ve dated before.”

Instead of correcting him again to say I wasn’t actually dating Archie, I scoffed, “What, charming?”

“I mean, a football player, a frat guy,” my brother clarified. “You know what some of those guys are like. Just because they look clean cut, doesn’t make them altar boys. You could get burned.”

My brother’s last few words struck a chord with me. _You could get burned._ Those words sounded awfully familiar, worded a little differently but much like the words of warning that—

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around to face my brother again, the curled blonde ends of my ponytail whipping the air as I went. “Did _Jughead_ set you up to this?”

“No,” Chic responded all too quickly. The gaze of his blue-green eyes shifted, too, so I knew he was lying.

“ _Charles Cooper_ ,” I spoke his full first name with an edge to my tone. It seemed we were both more like our mother than we ever cared to admit.

“ _Elizabeth Cooper_.”

I took the few strides back to his shopping cart and grabbed the lip of the metal on the end opposite to him, locking it in place with my hip so we were at a standstill. I stared at Chic with a straight face. It was a tested method of mine. He would crack. He always did. Chic could deal with high stress situations at work under pressure. But he was not immune to his little sister’s tactics.

“Okay, okay,” Chic surrendered in haste and ran a hand through his own blond hair. “He didn’t explicitly tell me to have a conversation. But he has raised concern over your budding relationship with Archie more than once. And that was just last week alone.”

I wanted to smirk at my double victory. One, for getting my brother to crack so quickly and two, for Jughead paying enough attention to me to the point that he was talking to my brother about me. Chic had no idea how much work Archie and I had put into our scheme for Jughead to even bring us up. If anyone was out of loop, it was Chic. He might be the only one who wasn’t in the thick of things and pulling a con.

Still, I kept my cool, keeping the same expression on my face. “Oh really?”

“Look, what you and Archie do…that’s your business. I just don’t want you to get hurt. Neither does Jughead.” Chic gestured at the contents of the shopping cart and went on, “I think it’s obvious that he’s the one friend I love enough to trust with my life. I’d trust him with yours, too. In a sense you’re kind of like his little sister too, you know?”

Oh, Lord. That wasn’t how I thought about Jughead. I was going to extreme lengths to make it so that wasn’t how he thought of me either. He _wasn’t_ one of those non-altar boy football players and he was the one I actually wanted to date. He _was_ my type.

Having known him for so long, I knew that just because Jughead was snooty and sarcastic, and a lone wolf, it didn’t mean he was incapable of being in a steady relationship. He didn’t stay the same way that he was in high school when he’d put on that leather jacket with the double-headed snake patch on it, putting girls into frenzies and not knowing how to deal with those feelings. He’d had a few girlfriends over the years, in college and in Toledo. I overheard conversations between him and Chic all the time. Jughead kept himself in check. And he didn’t say nasty things about his exes once things were over.

“There’s gotta be some Guy Code rule that Archie is violating,” Chic spoke again. “He might have known Jug longer than Jug’s known me. You can’t just hook up with your friend’s sister.”

Guy Code was stupid. Of course my brother referenced it to try to make me think of Jughead as familial.

“I think that’s more of a best friends’ thing,” I said on the contrary, then tested him, “like if _your_ best friend wanted to date _your_ little sister.”

Chic practically snorted. “If that happened, I’d say that we have a big mess on our hands. If Jughead ever told me that he wanted to date you, there would be hell to pay.”

Well, shit. There was something—or rather— _someone_ I’d never even considered through all of the scheming. Chic. As if the desired result of my con wasn’t impossible enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/165957199320/the-con-extended-chapter-notes) on [tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/). (Follow me? Send me asks and messages and let’s just be friends in general. <3)
> 
> Ongoing PSA: I solemnly swear that Archie’s end goal is the same as mine, a Bughead endgame.
> 
> Next chapter: Veronica returns, the Blossom twins make their sole appearance, someone gets drunk, and the boys wear suits. You’re going to get to the end and you’ll think that there’s no way it can be the calm before the storm. But it’s the calm before the storm.
> 
> Thank you so much to all that have left kudos and comments, sharing thoughts and theories with me. Please keep doing so! Every bit of feedback is appreciated! Thank you for reading.


	7. The Minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab a snack and settle in. This chapter has more than 11k words. Thank you for reading.

Four minutes. That was the time that separated me from my apartment. I’d just gotten off the bus from the train station, so I was just a quick walk away from home. I took a turn into the alley instead of continuing down the main street where the apartment building was located, hoping to cut the time down to _under_ four minutes. I figured that, in total, I was about ten minutes away from what I was so eager to get to: soaking my blistered and bloody feet in warm water in the bathtub. I’d been planning my evening ever since I hopped on the blue line. I wanted to drop everything I was carrying in the foyer, get the hot water going, march to my room for a change of clothes for the shower that would take place after I got a good soak in, actually get the soak and shower in, and then finally wind the evening down with a hearty meal and trashy TV.

Apparently that was the secret to the stage presence of a ballet dancer: a pan-seared steak with tortellini on the side and E! Entertainment. 

I sucked in a breath as I pushed the back gate shut behind me and peeked into the apartment building’s small yard. There was a single picnic bench up against the detached garage. Jughead sat there reading and smoking a cigarette. It was a position I’d seen him in several times before (our landlord had a very strict policy that prohibited smoking inside the building), usually from the other side of my second-story bedroom window. I hadn’t expected to see him there late in the afternoon, as the sky lost light, on his birthday.

Both my four-minute plan and ten-minute plan flew out the window—and I wasn’t even inside yet. I cursed my Cooper traits, as Chic had called them the day before, as I approached the table. I couldn’t put on blinders and make a mad dash for the back door with tunnel vision. I had to acknowledge Jughead. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t.

Jughead looked up from his book and his gaze met mine as my shoes crunched over fallen leaves.

“Betty,” he acknowledged.

“Hey, Juggie,” I responded. “What are you doing out here?”

There was an obvious answer to the question and I’d already observed it: he was reading and smoking. That wasn’t quite what I meant though, and he knew it.

“Waiting for Chic to get through his beauty routine, it seems,” Jughead answered.

There it was. That was why I hadn’t expected to see Jughead when I got home. His birthday, although hated by him for as long as I could remember, had a tradition: Jughead liked to sit in an old movie theater and enjoy a double feature. He and Chic had gone together when they were younger, at the movie theater in Riverdale, The Bijou. They couldn’t carry out the tradition when they went to separate colleges in different states, but that was only because they stopped living in the same town, not because they didn’t want to. It made sense that they would be back to Jughead’s celebratory double feature with him taking up residence in Chicago, and Chic had told me as much during our grocery shopping trip the day before.

I laughed at Jughead’s jab at my brother. “Tomoko has said practically the same thing before. She says he takes longer to get ready than she does.”

“I believe her.”

“So…” I took a load off and plopped my dance bag down on the table. There would be no salvaging of my plan that I’d walked home so quickly for, at least not in the next few minutes. Anyway, if Chic was still in the apartment, that was a total wrench in the works. I swung my legs, one at a time, over the bench and under the table, and took a seat to Jughead’s left. I didn’t have much choice since the table was pushed up against the garage on the other side. “So where are you guys going?”

Jughead dog-eared a page of his book to keep his spot, letting it close as he butted out his cigarette in the ashtray to his right. “The Patio Theater. It’s a double John Landis feature.”

I nodded and began pressing the pads of my fingers against the pads of my thumbs on both hands. I glanced at the familiar cover of the book Jughead had been reading. “Hey, I read that in AP English.”

“You read _The Devil in the White City_ in your AP Lit class?” Jughead asked with disbelief.

“No.” I shook my head. “The other AP English class. The one in junior year.”

“Language and Composition?”

“Yeah,” I confirmed. “I always thought that was the better of the two AP classes for English. A lot more useful in instructing 16 year olds _how_ to become better writers themselves and not just responding to a selection of literature through the ages written with ambitious punctuation.”

Jughead snorted. “I have a hard time believing that you ever needed improvement in that area.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I frowned.

“Betty, you’re making a career out of being amazing at ballet. You could probably kick the ass of any douchebag who dares challenge you to video games. You’d know better than anyone else that I know what to do about mechanical issues with a car or motorcycle,” he rattled off. “And this morning? The cake? Delicious. Is there even anything you’re _not_ good at?”

_Just you, I guess._

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks at Jughead’s compliments. “Oh. Thanks, Juggie. You’re the writer though.”

“It’s nice to have Betty Cooper’s perspective of AP English in high school,” Jughead countered. “Especially since that’s probably where I’m headed.”

“Uh…back to high school?”

“ _Teaching_ high school English or freshman composition at a community college,” he clarified with a laugh. “If the whole novelist thing doesn’t work out—or even if it does—I’m probably going to need a day job. That’s the typical path for Creative Writing MFA grads; get a teaching certificate, hope you can land a position at a cushy school with low student-to-teacher ratio, and spend what little time you have left on your own writing.” 

“A little ironic isn’t it,” I wondered, “how you might spend more time teaching kids how to write than actually writing yourself?”

“Believe me, the irony and the cost of writing is not lost on me. But anyway, thank you for the birthday cake,” Jughead said with awkward transition. “That should have been the first thing I said when you walked over here.”

I responded on the contrary, “That was Chic’s gift.”

“Yeah, but I know you did all the work. He told me,” Jughead replied. “And I’ll have you know I had that delicious sugar burger for a midnight snack _and_ for lunch today.”

I finished icing Jughead’s birthday cake at around 10 o’clock the night before. I thought that the cake had turned out to be a little lopsided and a little sloppy, but most of all it was well-intentioned, on both Chic’s part and mine. Chic being the sweet Cooper boy wonder that he was, he stayed up so he could bring the cake down to Jughead in the basement at precisely midnight, the very minute that it was his birthday. 

“All his idea,” I insisted. “You’ve got a best friend that loves you. So don’t go breaking his heart.”

“Betty, please!” Jughead exclaimed with mock offense. “I keep my best friend charm bracelet in a very safe place and I am never giving it back. So _he_ better not break up with _me_.”

Something I’d always admired about the friendship Chic and Jughead had was how matter-of-fact it was. They were two guys who loved each other platonically and were secure enough to not care if the relationship was characterized as romantic by others. They laughed endearingly about their ‘bromance’ rather than be offended by it. _“Girlfriends may come and go,”_ Chic had once said when he was younger, _“but I’ll never break up with my best friend.”_ I thought that it took a special kind of friendship and special kind of people to be firm in that unwaveringly.

I giggled and returned to the more intellectual topic sitting, literally, in front of Jughead. “So what do you think of the book?”

“I don’t know yet…I picked it up mostly because it’s a true crime novel that’s set here, in Chicago,” he explained. “I’m leaning toward that genre for my own novel. Right now though I’m thinking that I need to give myself a better background on the Exposition.”

I hadn’t just read _The Devil in the White City_ for my AP English class; I’d read it for my second semester paper, a long-form essay that thoroughly analyzed the devices the author used to tell the story. The story itself was an intertwining of two stories, of the architect who made an exposition of the city, and of a serial killer who used the events to lure people to their deaths at the Chicago World’s Fair (officially named The World’s Columbian Exposition) in 1893. To Jughead’s point, I felt like I had a decent understanding of the World’s Fair, though not necessarily because of the book.

“The version of _The Nutcracker_ we did at Joffrey last year, and that we’ll be doing for years to come,” I spoke, “it’s set at the fair. Marie dreams about the White City and what she would see there.”

Jughead raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

I simply nodded.

The reason that Joffrey’s new take on _The Nutcracker_ was so uniquely Chicago was because of its take on the classic story. It was set on Christmas Eve 1892, in the winter leading up to the opening of the World’s Fair, and paid some homage to the working-class heroes of those days—all while keeping Tchaikovsky’s original score. Marie, whose vivid dreams were the basis for the dances in the production, was the daughter of a Polish immigrant mother, a widowed sculptor who worked on the statue of _The Republic_ for the Exposition. 

“I suppose that’s all the more reason for me to go to the ballet then,” Jughead contemplated.

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “All the _more_ reason?”

“What, didn’t Chic tell you?” Jughead wondered casually. “I’ll be there on opening night for the show you’re currently preparing for. _Giselle_ , right? Come on now, I couldn’t bail on a Cooper.”

My fingers felt clammy as I pushed them together. Jughead had never been to one of my performances. I hadn’t expected he would be at opening night or _any_ night for that matter. My own parents wouldn’t even be at opening night, which fell on a Wednesday. They would only be in town for one weekend performance, because they had the paper to run, and small town news stopped for no one.

“Wow, Jug,” I said. “You don’t even know if you’ll like the first one and you’re already talking about the next one?”

“I like art. I like watching a story unfold. I like sitting in darkened theaters. And I like you,” he shrugged.

My breathing hitched and my heart rate picked up. But after a beat, before I could react, Jughead coughed and added, “Generally speaking.”

I let out the breath I’d held in and let some of the tension leave my hands. There he went again, sending me his mixed signals.

“Right,” I answered when I’d composed myself a little. “So do I owe you now? For opening night?”

Jughead crossed his arms over his chest. A smile slowly spread on his lips, almost-dimples at the corners of his mouth setting into place. It was like I’d just given him an idea. “Well, now that you mention it, yes. Yes, you do. And I know exactly how you can help me.”

“Let’s hear it, Ponyboy,” I teased. “What do you need?”

“I have to go to the Hancock Building before the semester ends to write something for one of my classes. I’ve been holding off on it because, well, you know why,” Jughead explained, bringing up his fear of heights without even having to say the words. “Maybe you can go with me. It’s only a few stops on the red line from the Loop. We can do it during lunch one day.”

I almost grimaced at the thought of it for Jughead. A lengthy ballet in a darkened theater, he would get through just fine. If he could appreciate _Giselle_ for the art that it was, if he could connect with the desperation in the story (and I knew Jughead’s childhood was well-versed in desperation), he might even enjoy it. But an observation deck with 360-degree panoramic view on the the 94th floor? Without a doubt, I knew he would hate that.

“Don’t you want to ask Sabrina?” I wondered, remembering the cute as a button bane of my existence who’d been hanging around. “I mean, if it’s hand-holding that you need, isn’t she the perfect candidate?”

Some would say that going up to the observation deck was the kind of thing couples did. Some would say it was romantic.

Jughead rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t want…I just think I’d like to keep my phobias on a need to know basis.”

I gave myself an extended moment before I responded, allowing his actions and words to simmer. His body language indicated that he was nervous. About letting Sabrina know that he was afraid of heights? About asking me if I would help him? Then he’d said that the knowledge of his fear was ‘need to know’. Did that mean that Sabrina wasn’t part of that circle? Did it mean that I was, or was it just because I’d known him since we were kids? And if Sabrina wasn’t in the secret circle, and he had no intention to let her be part of it, did that mean he wasn’t actually interested in hanging out with her beyond their collaborative assignment?

All of my questions felt like they were on the tip of my tongue and I swallowed them down, curling my hand into a fist, the pads of my fingertips uncomfortably pressed tight against my palm without digging in.

“I’ll go with you,” I promised.

“Okay, good,” he uttered with a grin. He took his hat off momentarily to run a hand through the waves of his hair before readjusting the beanie on his head. It was like an art for him, always with the perfect amount of raven hair peeking out of the front, right side swooping against his forehead perfectly. “We can go sometime after opening night, whenever you can find time. Chic told me October is a busy month for you.”

Every mixed signal was a shock to the system. Jughead and Chic spent a lot of time together—enough that Jughead could confidently joke about best friend charm bracelets—and they talked about _a lot_ of things. But me being one of those things, and me being the reason that Jughead would willingly go to the ballet? It set off as many butterflies in the pit of my stomach as the almost-dimples at the corners of his mouth when he smiled.

Jughead Jones spent some of his time thinking about me.

His statement was true, too. The fall season at Joffrey always felt busier than the spring season. It seemed to drag on for too long at the beginning in September, when every day at work was spent going to company class and being in different rehearsals. But October would culminate what we worked so hard for: the performance weeks. We were about two weeks out from opening night, which meant rehearsals had moved into the theater. No matter how much mastery had come through in the dance studios, in my opinion the theater stage always gave the dances a bit of a new feel, it made them feel brand new again for those first few attempts. Especially for someone like me, who hadn’t been singled out on stage since a gala during my apprentice year, it was something to get used to. The company studios on Randolph Street had floor to ceiling windows where natural light poured in, with the piano in the corner of the room. In the Auditorium Theatre, the stage lights were blinding, casting a sea of darkness from the orchestra pit to the rafters, and the music came from downstage. The turf of the rehearsal studio floors were supposed to be the same as that on the stage, but I’d sworn ever since the academy that it felt like the stage was less rigid and had more give. I always dipped my pointe shoes in more rosin than usual for stage rehearsals, feeling like they were slipping.

“Jug,” I said his name when a realization about the day’s occasion hit me.

“What?”

“I’ve been used to you not liking your birthday since we were kids,” I began, “so I didn’t know if I should get you something or…or if…”

“Hey.” Jughead uncrossed his arms and shifted closer to me. With questioning blue eyes, he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Betty, are you trying to _apologize_ for not getting me a present? Stop that.”

“It’s just that—“ 

“No. Not another word about that,” he interrupted. “You’re right to think I still don’t like my birthday. Like I told you, I enjoyed the cake. I don’t want anything else.”

It wasn’t the kind of thing Jughead would lie about just to make me feel better. He wasn’t really the type to say something just to make someone feel better anyway. I sighed. “Okay.”

Jughead let his hand fall from my shoulder but didn’t slide back down the bench to where he’d been. He stayed where he was.

“Do you want to go with us?” he wondered. “To the movies tonight, I mean.”

“Oh, Jug, no, I wasn’t fishing for an invitation when I brought up your birthday,” I replied quickly.

He squinted at me. “I _know_ you weren’t. I was inviting you of my own volition. Just because I felt like it. It’s my birthday and I’ll do what I want.”

Those words just made me feel more embarrassed. “Of course you can. Sorry.”

“Betty, calm down,” he remarked with a hint of a smirk. “I’m not trying to get you wound up.”

I huffed and Jughead leaned in closer to me. He tapped on the tension in my knuckles. “Is that why you do this?”

His warm fingertips sent a jolt of electricity through me.

“I…yeah…it helps,” I stammered and stopped the action. “Nervous habit when I’m trying to focus. Or when I’m stressed about something.”

 _Or when I’m this close to you._ Jughead was so close that I could smell his aftershave and the nicotine on his breath. I could see the faint freckles on his nose and how long his eyelashes were.

Mentioning stress wasn’t a lie though. It wasn’t just sitting next to him that had me nervous. There was the upcoming run of _Giselle_ , of course, and all the things that came with it: rehearsals, physio, costume fittings—to name a few. As opening night neared, so too did the auditions for _The Nutcracker_. If I was to be promoted to soloist in the spring when contracts were renewed, then it served my best interests to keep my momentum going and snag another soloist’s role in the Joffrey’s holiday production. I really wanted to be in one of the cultural dances, and I would get my shot at it during auditions, but really I was trying to sort out just how many audition pieces I could handle and keep straight in my head. I was going out for as many roles as I could, even ones that were out of reach.

 _The Nutcracker_ was a different kind of beast for ballet season. It was an entire month of daily (sometimes twice daily) performances, save for Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. That meant that there were _five_ different casts, so dancers were assigned to different roles on different nights. Worst case scenario, I’d get to understudy for a soloist and never get to dance it in the spotlight. But it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that if I had a good audition, and if I did well during my pas de deux with Trev in _Giselle_ , that I could land myself in another solo role, because _The Nutcracker_ was a big ballet with a lot of roles. So I had to be prepared. I needed to nail the Peasant pas de deux. And I needed to show something special at auditions, especially when I was up against established soloists and principals.

“It’s a busy month. I’ve got a lot on my plate,” I spoke again and turned my hands over, face down against the wooden surface of the table. “Doing that with my hands helps me cope when I’m feeling uneasy. It’s like when you rub the back of your neck.”

“When I what?” 

“Oh, come on, Juggie. You have to know you do that. You rub your neck right,” I leaned back to get my arm situated and then splayed my fingers out against the nape of his neck, just under his beanie, “here.” 

I felt out of control. I didn’t know where I’d gotten the sudden confidence boost to reach out and touch the back of his neck. I’d been trying to use the same confidence I approached dance with around him, but that didn’t usually involve intimate neck touching.

Jughead didn’t seem to mind it. Or at the very least, he didn’t hate it. He shuddered against my touch, as if in relief, when I skimmed my fingertips against his skin, but he didn’t flinch away from the contact. His eyes fluttered and then shut momentarily.

“I…I know. I know I do that,” he admitted, his speech losing its eloquence. I watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed before he continued, “Betty, I just wanted you to—”

“Hey, you ready?”

The sound of the back door slamming shut and footsteps against concrete prompted me to pull my hand away from Jughead quickly and grip my own knee under the table. When Chic’s voice rang out into the air of the backyard, Jughead immediately shut his mouth and straightened up.

My brother had horrible timing. It seemed like Jughead was about to tell me something I’d been waiting to hear and Chic had unknowingly interrupted. Great.

“Ready?” Jughead raised the end of the word in question. “Man, I’ve been sitting out here for like half an hour waiting for you.”

“Sorry.” Chic smiled sheepishly. “You too, Betty?”

“No,” I responded and glanced briefly at Jughead. “I just got here.” 

His eyes darted from meeting my gaze then down to the table, no expression on his face to indicate how he felt about the moment that just transpired between us. An almost moment.

“So, Jug,” Chic looked between Jughead and me, but if he had any thoughts on the lack of distance between us, he didn’t mention them. “We should get going. We still have to find parking when we get there.”

Jughead slid down the bench away from me so he could swing his legs out from under the table. He met my gaze once more and spoke directly to me, “You sure you don’t want to come with us?”

I shook my head firmly. “I honestly have no desire to do anything but soak my feet right now.”

And I was so overdue. My toes should have already been close to pruning in water.

Jughead nodded as he stood up. He wiggled his eyebrows. “Well, enjoy your evening in then.”

“Hey.” I touched his arm before he could walk off with his best friend. “Happy Birthday, Juggie.”

 

\-----

 

I was elated. I’d soaked up every second of the Peasant pas de deux with the blinding spotlight set on my partner and me as we danced in circles around the stage. I loved it. I’d almost forgotten the thrill of having a solo role. My dance with Trev in the first act was less than ten minutes long, but it was on opening night and it felt amazing. In the backstage hair and makeup room that I’d been assigned, after the performance, I could practically feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I sat in front of the mirror for a long time, just settling down, before I started wiping off my stage makeup. I’d spent a fair amount of my time in the corps de ballet telling myself that I didn’t want to be a principal dancer, that I wanted to get to soloist and nothing more. Well, ten minutes in a soloist’s role and I wanted _more_. I would need to take some serious time to reassess exactly what I wanted from ballet once the run of _Giselle_ was over.

In the theater lobby, after the ballet, it wasn’t difficult to find the group that had shown up to see me: a vibrant bunch in their early twenties. It was tradition to get dressed up to go see a ballet. Veronica and Chic didn’t need to be told that. Having previously been a dance academy graduate and being related to a dancer, respectively, they already knew the status quo. I’d shed some light on the other two attendees that rounded out my party, Jughead and Archie, when they told me that they wanted to be part of my big night, so that they knew what to expect. Jughead had told me on his birthday, and after I recounted our almost moment and everything leading up to it to Archie, he figured that as part of the con he ought to be there as well—It would be weird if he didn’t show up to support the girl he’d been hanging out with on the biggest night of her career to date. Beyond explaining to them that my role was less than ten minutes long and that _Giselle_ was a full-length ballet that lasted about two hours with only one intermission, I’d told them to expect an older and well-refined crowd.

The performing arts survived on sponsors, donations, fundraising, and season ticket holders. Ballet was an old art and young people weren’t exactly dying to pay for an opera house ticket (even a subsidized one, if they were students) to see an adaptation of _Othello_ or _The Sleeping Beauty_. As dancers, we in the company were ever so thankful for the support that allowed us to live our dreams. In fact, with opening night also being the opening of the season, the company was hosting a party. It would be a few hours of hors d’oeuvres and champagne for the dancers, families, friends, season ticket holders—anyone and everyone that supported our craft was extended an invitation—but mostly it was for the bigwig sponsors, so they had a chance to speak to anyone in the company in a relaxed setting, to see up close and personal where their money was going.

I knew I was going to need a fair amount of champagne to even myself out of my dance high.

Veronica was the first person to greet me in the lobby. She was dressed to the nines (she always was) in a deep violet silk dress cut just above the knee, cropped velvet cape that matched her patent leather Louboutins, and signature pearls donned at the base of her throat. Veronica’s family still made major donations to the ballet company even after she’d decided to pursue other endeavors—the Lodges’ foundation name was definitely listed in the program. Ever the socialite, she’d know more people at the party than I did.

“You killed it, B,” she said, shaking me a bit by the shoulders. “I’ve never been so proud. You’re going to get an honorable mention in the _Sun-Times_ for sure.”

With a laugh, I hugged her tightly. “Thanks, V.”

Old art or not, the _Chicago Sun-Times_ did cover opening night of every ballet we performed throughout the season in the Entertainment section of the newspaper. For the most part, the focus was on the principals and established soloists. But up and comers who didn’t fall flat could, on occasion, be lucky enough to get a sentence with their name written in it by the reviewer.

I moved on to Chic who first gave me a hug from Tomoko, who sent her apologies for being out of town at a team building retreat with her coworkers. Chic added a kiss on the cheek before he spoke, “Congratulations, Betty. I hope you’re well on your way to getting everything you want. Promotion. Raise. Mostly the raise—so we can alternate between who pays for the expensive granola bars.”

A couple of years had passed since my brother last attended one of my performances. I was pretty sure the only thing he liked about ballet was the flexibility of all the women. He would always show up to provide his older brother support when warranted, but I’d danced strictly in the corps de ballet the last two seasons. Those of us in the corps served as understudies to the soloists, and the soloists served as understudies to the principals because as the saying went, _the show must go on_. There were two kinds of programs that the company performed: mixed repertoires and full-lengths. Mixed repertoires were usually the newer, innovative, contemporary works that were only one act long. During the weeks that we performed mixed repertoires, three short individual ballets were performed each night.

So I’d learned a lot of soloist roles. But since joining the corps, just my luck, all of the dancers that I’d been an understudy for had been healthy and uninjured for performance nights in the past two years—not that I wished them any undue harm. It meant that Chic hadn’t had to sit in the Auditorium Theatre since the days of my apprenticeship.

“Here.” My brother held out a mixed flower bouquet of pinks and purples. “These are from both of us.”

The other half of ‘us’ was Jughead. He was to Chic’s left. I hadn’t seen Jughead in a suit since his high school graduation. And Jughead the man, at 24, looked _good_ , even more than an 18-year-old Jughead whose suit had been a little ill-fitting (though I’d still thought he looked cute that day). Back then he’d salvaged a suit from the local thrift shop. The shoulder pads had looked too bulky and the pant legs too baggy. The navy blue suit he’d chosen for the ballet was slim fit and trim against his torso, slacks pressed and tailored perfectly to his ankles, where shiny dress shoes adorned his feet. He was even wearing a tie, simple black that paired well with an indigo button-down shirt.

Jughead had sat through a nearly two-hour long ballet for _me_. He’d willingly ditched flannel for a suit and tie for _me_. We locked eyes as I accepted the bouquet from Chic into my arms.

“Thanks, Jug.” I gave him a nod.

He returned the nod once and moved closer to me. The look on his face was particularly scowly, even more than usual. Regardless, he enveloped me in an awkward hug, crushing the flower bouquet between us a little bit. I had to force myself not to close my eyes or grip his back too tight, well aware of everyone else that was there. He smelled of his Jughead scent and his breath was warm against the shell of my ear as he spoke. “I want you to know that my contribution to those roses is _way_ more than Chic’s. Don’t let him fool you.”

There weren’t even any roses in the bouquet. I cracked a smile at him when the hug ended.

“Juggie,” I said his name softly and gestured at the crown of his head that was without crown. “Your hat.”

His 90’s DiCaprio haircut that he usually denied sharing with the world was on full display, one tendril of black hair unruly and curled against his forehead.

“Oh,” Jughead replied simply and instinctively smoothed the curl into place with the natural swoop of the rest of his black mop. A second later the curl popped back into its out-of-place place. “I figured that the occasion called for a night without it.”

Jughead Jones, who couldn’t be forced to do anything he didn’t want to do, who wore his crown beanie in all public circumstances, had taken off his hat for _me_. How could I even get through the rest of the night without sending all the heart eyes his way?

“Anyway, the show was cool,” his tone changed. I expected him to continue in his usual sardonic way but instead he was nonchalant. Subdued, even. “ _You done good_ , Betts.”

No comment about how bendy everyone was. Nothing about how he would have rather been strapped down on an anthill than see the outline of other men’s junk and Greek god-like asses through their tights. Something was going on with him. He wasn’t himself. He wasn’t the Jughead that I had more than a crush on. He’d just advised me tonot let Chic fool me, but he didn’t fool me either. I was completely sure that the flowers had been my brother’s idea, something Chic remembered from my performances when he’d been dragged along by my parents, but it was a nice gesture on Jughead’s part anyway. It was nice of him to notice enough to be involved.

“Hey.”

The last person standing in the half circle of my friends was Archie. He looked like the prototypical version of the boy next door that he was, but grown up. His suit was pinstriped and his gray collared, button-down shirt brought out the lighter specks in his hazel eyes. Archie’s hair was gelled but instead of the tousled look he’d been going with for as long as I could remember, even those times I saw him around town before I really knew him, it was parted to the side and combed down. He sported his signature lopsided grin on his lips.

“Hi,” I answered.

He leaned in close to me and stroked my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You were beautiful,” he said just loud enough so everyone in the group could hear him.

It was too sweet, along with his actions, for someone who wasn’t my boyfriend, or at least dating me, to say. He said it with so much conviction that I actually believed him. His smile had enough confidence in it for the both of us and I felt beautiful even then, offstage, standing in front of him. After the stage makeup—pancake face, we dancers liked to call it—was removed, I’d re-moisturized and prepared for the party. I redid my makeup in more neutral tones: brown eyeliner just on the top lids, a hint of my favorite pink blush, and coral lips. My dress was structured and form-fitting, a nice shade of copper that complimented my golden locks falling in soft waves around my face.

“Thank you,” I responded, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“For you,” were his next words.

Archie had his own flower bouquet for me, not shared, and by no means small. It was just on the verge of being obnoxious. If Chic and Jughead had picked a standard-sized bunch of mixed flowers, well, Archie had gone above and beyond. He’d chosen white lilies and gone with a deluxe size. Around the theater lobby, I saw that most of the soloists hadn’t even gotten two bouquets, much less one that dwarfed another. I certainly wasn’t uniform with the corps after the first performance of _Giselle_ , not when I’d performed my own dance and not when I had such amazing, supportive friends that showed up for me.

“I’m not even going to ask how you managed to fit this under your seat during the show,” I told him as he set the lilies into my arms.

Archie shrugged and stayed on topic with a follow up statement for me, “I obviously don’t know anything about ballet but I sat beside Veronica here, and she tells me you were really good.”

“Not just good, Archiekins,” Veronica, who had taken up residence at Archie’s side once she’d greeted me, shot back at him. “ _Magnifique_.”

Veronica easily moved to French but I was still stuck on _Archiekins_. That was a new development.

“Mag _what?”_ Archie squinted and scratched his head. “I don’t speak French.”

“Oh, you are precious.” Veronica hit his shoulder playfully.

The smile Archie gave Veronica reminded me of the interaction between them the last time they’d been in the same place, the night they met at Veronica’s Labor Day weekend party. I’d thought that there were some fireworks between them then, on the dance floor. More than a month later, it seemed, those sparks were back. If I knew Veronica, then I knew that she excelled in areas where I didn’t: flirting, speaking French, and making on the spot pop culture references. She often dropped French words when she was flirting, so I knew that she was trying hard _not_ to flirt with the guy she thought I was sort of dating if she was using her French to describe me to him. 

On Archie’s part, it was sure convenient for him to shift into his head in the clouds persona with Veronica looking up at him with her perfect eyebrows and devious smile. Like Jughead’s glum attitude, Archie didn’t fool me either. We’d schemed together and I knew his reputation as a ladykiller. Maybe he wasn’t the most well-informed and he was a little dopey, but I knew it was a front that he was completely clueless. So maybe he really didn’t know any French, but each of his responses to Veronica played right into her hand. They were still dancing. They both wanted to flirt with each other.

Archie and I were still the only souls who knew about the con we were pulling. It still made sense to keep it between us. But if my suspicions about sparks were correct, then maybe it would be time to come clean to Veronica very soon. 

When the chatter in the theater lobby began to die down, it was time to make the move to the party. The reception was a very short walk away, a quick relocation from the depths of the Auditorium Theatre lobby to the Fainman Lounge of the Auditorium Building. Archie offered me his arm to latch onto. “Want to walk with us, V?” I asked my friend.

Archie tucked his hand to his hip to present his free hand to Veronica for the taking. He puffed his chest a little, ready to walk into the cocktail party with two women flanking either side of him. Veronica’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two of us momentarily.

“No, no, you two do your thing,” she shook her head at the idea of joining us, dismissively waving a hand in the air at us.

“You sure?” I wondered.

Veronica was a strong and independent woman, and she always had someone at her beckon call. I didn’t mind if she wanted to join Archie and me, especially not if she was interested in him and if I would have to hook them up anyway after all was revealed.

“I will catch up with you inside. Actually, I was talking to literate Jordan Catalano during intermission and I think now is the time to corner him.” Veronica was undoubtedly talking about Jughead, tilting her head in the direction that he and Chic began walking toward. She held her thumb and index finger less than an inch apart. “I’m pretty sure I’m like _this_ close to convincing McBroody to let me feature him on my channel.” 

She didn’t wait for a response as she took off, Louboutins clicking against the theater lobby’s tile that was more than a hundred years old. I settled into step with Archie for the short walk to the party. Jughead and Chic were several strides in front of us, conversing and following the mass of bodies headed toward the lounge. It looked like they were having a continuation of a conversation. Something serious. Jughead was somber as he spoke to my brother. When Veronica reached them, wedging herself between them so that she was in the middle, Chic plastered a smile on his face but _McBroody_ kept his broody expression. I’d seen that look one too many times. Veronica certainly had her work cut out for her to convince him to talk about his style and his writing, on camera, for strangers on the internet to criticize.

“What’s up with him?” I asked Archie.

He answered, “Oh, you are gonna love this. You remember Sabrina?”

“How could I forget?” I stifled a groan.

My response earned a low chuckle from Archie. He knew exactly how I felt about ‘that Sabrina girl’, as I liked to refer to her, when I would complain about her to my trusty partner in crime. She was so much trendier and so much more freespirited than me. Archie had had to talk me down from the ledge and reassure me that she was just a pawn more than a few times.

“Anyway, she thought that she and Jug were headed toward being more than…whatever they were,” Archie didn’t even have to utter the detailed words for me to know what he meant. “But he told her today that maybe she got the wrong impression.”

“He did?” A hopeful pang thudded in my chest.

“Yeah,” Archie confirmed. “She didn’t take it well. She accused him of leading her on and taking advantage of her just for their school project—which is so not Jug—and I think that’s why he’s upset. I don’t think he was prepared for her to start crying either.”

“Wait, when and where did this happen? Were you there? That must have been awful for her.”

Archie scoffed. “Wow, I thought you hated this girl? Now you’re concerned?”

“I’m always concerned, Arch. It’s a Cooper trait. Keep up,” I retorted, snapping my fingers for emphasis. “Just because I don’t like someone it doesn’t mean I want them to cry over some guy.”

As much as Jughead self-identified with being a loner, it didn’t mean he wasn’t worth a second glance. People had known that since his snake patch leather jacket days. It was always the sensitive types that ended up liking him, too. When he told them that he couldn’t see them anymore, or had to have the awkward conversation that he wasn’t interested, they got their feelings and their pride hurt.

“Really, Betty, _some guy_? I can practically see the gears turning in your head,” Archie told me as we reached our destination.

Archie was right. Jughead wasn’t just ‘some guy’ to me. There was more at stake if I ever became one of those girls that he had to let down easy. Alternatively though, based on what he’d done in dumping Sabrina and what he’d already done for me on opening night, maybe things were looking up. I leaned toward the notion that the things he’d done were because our destiny was different. Still, I kept my crystal vision to myself. 

“Does it make me a bad person if I’m happy that he’s never going out with her again?” I wondered as I dropped my flowers off to be put aside by the coat check.

Did I really need to remind anyone that I hated her from the moment I met her?

“Maybe,” Archie took my hand as we walked up to our waiting friends, “but I won’t hold it against you.”

They were waiting for Archie and me because as a Joffrey dancer, I was the one who needed to vouch for them as members of my party. The Auditorium Theatre and Building were housed inside a university that was very much in session. The Fainman Lounge was just that, a lounge—not closed off in a separate room—so the events held there were barricaded only by velvet ropes. Veronica could have made it in with no problem, one way or another, but the same couldn’t be said for the boys. 

As soon as we made it past the velvet ropes, Chic and Jughead made a beeline for the canapés. Someone recognized Veronica immediately and she went to mingle. Archie and I both reached for champagne flutes from the nearest server and clinked our glasses together in a toast before enjoying the bubbly. We talked about college football season and how it was interfering with his creative process for songwriting.

Unfortunately for me, that was the only glass of champagne I would sip slowly and enjoy for the night—the rest would be more of a blur. I found out all too soon exactly why I wouldn’t be sending heart eyes to Jughead the very minute that he interacted with Cheryl Blossom.

When I saw her slink her way over to the table of canapés where Chic and Jughead were standing, the only color I saw was red and the exact shade was the crimson of her dress. She didn’t know I was the reason they were at the party. That changed quickly when I saw all three of them look in my direction. Cheryl’s gaze lingered and the smile she cast at me was sinister, like she was sending a message as she ate the olive from her red cocktail. I lost my composure fast and grabbed more champagne.

Cheryl had never liked me. She attended the dance academy along with Kevin, Veronica, and me, but was two years older, and of course she was an incredible dancer. Her rise through the ranks had been fast and she’d done it all with her twin brother, Jason, by her side. They were the Joffrey Ballet’s darlings of the moment, both newly promoted principal dancers. It worried me to think about what would ever happen if I was assigned as Jason’s partner for a pas de deux. The Blossom twins were intense. Cheryl’s love for Jason was intense. There was some irony to their roles in the second cast of _Giselle_ as Myrtha and Hilarion, where in a critical scene Hilarion begged Myrtha for his life, but she could not be swayed, and without the sympathy of the Wilis and their queen, Hilarion eventually danced to his death.

I’d heard other girls that previously partnered with Jason say it was a nightmare, because it meant having to deal with Cheryl’s wrath. She had a holier than thou complex and didn’t think anyone was worthy of him, not even strictly platonic just for dance. The Blossom twins came from money and if the classic romantic ballets weren’t so, well, _romantic_ , I had no doubt Cheryl would find a way to use their wealth to make sure all of their pas de deuxs were only with each other.

Corps members liked to talk, and rumor had it that Jason’s girlfriend was pregnant. I wondered how Cheryl would deal with _that_ , potentially losing her brother not just to another woman but a child as well. I saw Jason across the room with the supposed charlatan. She had blonde hair parted straight down the middle and was wearing a flowly dress that neither confirmed nor denied the rumors of the corps. Not that I thought about Jason Blossom a lot, but I’d always imagined that any girlfriend of his would look a little bit like his sister since they had a freaky close relationship. If anything though, the girl he was with looked like she could pass for _my_ sister. She and Jason looked totally in love, sneaking glances at each other as they talked to Trev.

What the gossip folks in the corps didn’t know was that there’d been a time that I knew Cheryl, or at least knew her enough to know how to deal with her. And the reason she didn’t like me, the reason she was threatened by me, had nothing to do with dance. It was because I knew about some of the skeletons in her closet. I was Veronica’s best friend, and Cheryl was Veronica’s ex-girlfriend.

A year ago, they’d dated for six months. Ultimately, what broke them up were the insecurities that they both brought to the relationship. For Cheryl, she had the need to be the absolute center of Veronica’s universe at all times. That just wasn’t possible for Veronica who, during that period, had just joined the ranks of YouTube channels with over a million subscribers, and was trying to build an empire with longevity. On Veronica’s part, she’d failed to realize that she had to pick her battles. She was used to taking the lead and having her way at each turn, which absolutely did _not_ happen while dating Cheryl.

Their breakup had been amicable, both acknowledging that they brought out something ugly in the other. I still saw Cheryl five days a week by virtue of being in the same ballet company together. She had a permanent chip on her shoulder, and I suspected the spider brooch she wore on her street clothes was the very embodiment of that chip in material form. She sheltered herself by talking only to Jason and the few alumni from their class at the academy that had made it into the company with them. When Cheryl happened to glance in my direction, it was always with a bit of a sneer. But underneath that sneer was a look I recognized as pleading of me to please, _please_ , keep whatever I knew about her from Veronica a secret. So, Cheryl Blossom? She didn’t intimidate me.

Not until I saw her sinister smile when she was standing with Jughead.

The event was meant to have an intimate feel and promote mingling, so there was no formal dinner. There was no seating arrangement and the white tablecloth-covered tables were half the size of banquet tables, cocktail height, no chairs around. Twenty feet away from me, Jughead was mingling all right. He said something to Cheryl that was so funny that she threw her head back in laughter and sunk her claws into his arm. He flashed her one of his genuine smiles that was usually reserved for his friends and his sister, for people he _knew_. When Chic stepped away, Jughead and Cheryl were still talking. Jughead’s stance changed. He ate his canapés with ease, popping the garnished crackers in his mouth and even running a hand through his hair a few times. God. He was _flirting_ with Cheryl. By my third flute of champagne, I wasn’t sure if I started drinking too early or too late because I couldn’t ignore them. 

Archie nudged me. “You just gonna stare at _some guy_ all night?”

“What do you think they’re talking about?” I asked Archie, bitterness evident in my voice. “The weather?”

“Don’t do this to yourself, Betty,” he advised. “He broke things off with Sabrina. That’s a win.”

“What planet are you from? Straight from a cute little blonde into the arms of a red-headed ice queen isn’t a win,” I hissed, the buzz of the alcohol manifesting in my annoyance level.

“Why don’t you just go over there?” Archie wondered. “This is supposed to be your night.”

“You’re sick.” I stabbed at Archie’s chest with a finger. “Going over there to talk to Jughead _and_ Cheryl right now sounds like my own personal version of hell.”

A different server walked by with more champagne and I pried two flutes off his platter. “Betty…” Archie warned, “slow down.”

I pushed one of the flutes toward him. “This one’s for _you_ , Arch.” 

Archie pushed it away from both of us. “I don’t think so.”

“C’mon, frat boy, it’s just like a high-class kegger.”

“And who’s going to look after you if we’re both drunk off our asses?” he sighed.

“Hey, guys. How are things shaking up over here?” It was Veronica, back from her tour of the room.

“They’ve been shook,” Archie answered before I could. “I think Betty’s had a little too much to drink.”

“B?” The sweet expression on Veronica’s face quickly morphed into a look of concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” I replied with emphasis. “I…”

My sentence trailed off when I glanced in the direction of Cheryl’s flowy red hair again. She was standing closer to Jughead and he was talking with his hands, which meant that he was talking about something he was passionate about. 

Veronica followed my gaze to her ex-girlfriend. “Cheryl?”

“As we live and breathe,” I muttered.

“Is that her name? Cheryl? The girl Jughead is talking to? I’m getting the vibe that she and Betty don’t like each other very much,” Archie interjected.

“Did she say something to you?” Veronica asked me, then spoke to Archie, “Betty very rarely gets inebriated. Cheryl must have said something.” 

“Guys!” I said with irritation. “I’m right _here_.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Be warned – she gets a little testy when she drinks, too.”

Archie sighed. “Maybe I should take her home?”

“Okay, seriously.” I wasn’t far from stomping my foot to get my point across. “You both see me standing here, right?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Veronica answered Archie’s question and totally ignored mine. “You deal with Kat Stratford here, I’m going to go talk to Cheryl.”

“No, V,” I whined. “Don’t make it worse.”

“Archiekins will take care of you, B,” she finally addressed me with a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She squeezed Archie’s wrist quickly before she walked away. I let him lead me in the direction of the coat check.

Having the right body type for ballet meant that I was long and lean. And during performance weeks, at peak condition, my weight usually dropped a few pounds because of all the directions in which I was being pulled. So by design, I was a lightweight—literally and figuratively. Two flutes of champagne were enough to get me buzzed, three to get me tipsy, and I’d had five flutes.

Archie hauled me into an Uber soon after, before I could make an ass of myself in front of my friends and my colleagues. He’d been drinking with me, too. The last glass that I slid toward him had been the first one he’d refused. But he also outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, so the alcohol didn’t have the same effect on him as it did on me. He was supposed to be a 21-year-old frat boy college football player, but true to his _true_ character, he acted as the hovering, concerned puppy dog that I knew him to be. Instead of getting plastered on the dime of the Joffrey Ballet and its major sponsors, he took care of me. I was a touchy feely kind of drunk. But Archie didn’t even complain when I clung to him for the entire ten-minute ride from the Auditorium Building to his apartment (his place was closer than mine), listening to the radio recap of the Cubs’ sole win against the Dodgers—both battling for the NLCS title—and the Cubs trying to make it back to defend their World Series title.

Up the stairs of the front porch, through the threshold, and inside his apartment, I didn’t let go of Archie until he sat me down on the couch, the flowers that I’d received earlier in the night beside me. I examined a picture of him with his dad from childhood, framed and placed on one of the side tables that flanked the couch. The two of them were in front of an open garage—the garage of the house across the street from my own childhood home—and Archie was on a bike, his dad holding onto the edge of the seat to counterbalance the weight. Child Archie, just as I remembered him, had flaming red hair poking out from under his helmet and a face full of freckles. His tongue was sticking out at the side of his mouth, pure determination on his face and knees full of bandages, presumably from falling while learning to ride the bike. He was a scrawny, small little thing, nothing like the grown up Archie that I’d gotten to know.

The champagne bubbles had gone straight to my head and I giggled loudly at the stark contrast.

When present day Archie was standing in front of me, I picked up the picture and held it in the air as high as I could, comparing both versions of him. I melted into a fit of giggles and tossed the frame onto the couch. I ran one of my hands over the buttons of Archie’s shirt and asked, “When did you transition into Sexy Archie? Puberty was real good to Little Archie, huh?”

“Remember what I said in the car about indoor voices? Reggie has an early morning class tomorrow so we don’t want to wake him up.” Archie stepped back and replaced his chest with a bottle of water, placing it in my palm, the cap already off. Instead of answering my question, he said, “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”

“No.” I held it back out towards him. “I feel great.”

I really did. I felt very relaxed. None of my overworked muscles ached. There was a floaty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. My surroundings all seemed to be in soft focus, the colors earthy toned.

Archie groaned. “You say that _now_.”

He wasn’t smiling as he retrieved the water bottle and re-capped it. He set it down in the space between the couch cushions and removed his suit jacket before taking a seat on the carpet at my feet.

“Are you mad at me?” I pouted. “Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” he assured me, speaking in an even tone. “Let’s take off your shoes so you can sleep this off.”

The corners of my mouth crept upward further, from a smile into a wide grin. I liked the sound of that. I already felt floaty. The thought of lying down and sinking into a slumber pleased me very much.

“I like sleep,” I mumbled as Archie took one of my ankles in his hands. The nude Mary Janes that I wore slipped off easily once he got the little buckles undone.

“Of course you do,” he chuckled.

“Will you let me sleep in your bed?” I wondered, thinking about pillows and cozy flannel sheets.

“I certainly can’t leave you here like this.” I knew he meant my intoxication as he shifted onto his knees and then his feet. “Can you stand?”

Quickly, I shot up out of my seat to prove that I could. I’d made it inside from the Uber, after all. The soft filters of my vision spun and my knees buckled. “Oops,” I laughed as Archie caught me by the elbows and sat me back down again. Those few seconds felt good, like the thrill just before the drop of a roller coaster.

“Okay, just hold this,” Archie placed the water bottle in my hands once more. “I can carry you.”

My giggling rang out against Archie’s chest as he moved me to the bedroom. He carried me, holding me by the undersides of my knees and at my waist. I pointed my toes in the air and then I really did feel like I was floating. He didn’t seem impressed with me as he set me down on the mattress. I was in the middle of the bed, my legs dangling over the edge, because I was flailing around so much.

“Arch,” I whined, tugging on one of his arms. “Lighten up. I’m just having fun.”

He pried himself from my drunken grip easily and walked over to the open closet, to the dresser, just like the last time I’d been in his room. He pulled out a few garments and tossed one on the bed. I didn’t get a show as he started undressing, facing away from me.

I closed my eyes for what seemed like just a moment and when I opened them again he had the door open. I lifted my head. “Where are you going? Don’t leave me.”

“I’m just going to the bathroom, babe,” he answered. “I’ll be right back.”

 _Babe_. I liked the way it sounded rolling off his tongue, directed at me casually. I liked the way he flashed his crooked smile at me sincerely and the way he looked in his boxers and t-shirt. With the champagne dancing away down my veins, I was pretty sure he was exactly who I should be beside to end the night, my knight in shining sleep armor.

“You okay?” Archie stood at the edge of the bed, hands on his hips, when he returned. He took the water bottle from where I dropped it on the bed and uncapped it once more before he set it on the nightstand. “You’ll be happy this is here when you wake up in the morning.”

“My dress,” I rasped, turning onto my side and stabbing at the zipper that went down the length of my back. “Not comfy. I need help.”

Archie plopped down beside me. He moved the bouncy curls of my hair away from my back and up toward my neck. His fingers were steady and warm at the nape of my neck as he undid the clasp at the top of the dress before gliding the zipper down. Once my skin was exposed down to the small of my back, he stopped. The bed shifted as he reached over me and grabbed the shirt that he’d tossed over earlier.

“Come on,” he told me when he was standing at the foot of the bed again, “sit up.”

Lazily, I rolled onto my back and held my hand out in the air toward him, waiting until he pulled me into a sitting position. I slid the dress off my shoulders and the top part fell to my waist, bunched up, half on and half off. I pulled at the skirt on both sides and, without ever standing up, shimmied it down my hips until the dress was in a heap on the floor.

I was down to my underwear. Wordlessly, Archie slipped the oversized shirt over my head and looked for the armholes. Without thinking, I untucked my hair from inside the shirt and unhooked my bra at my back, slipping it down my arms and tossing it on top of my dress.

Immediately, Archie’s eyes widened as he caught a peek of my bare chest. He stepped back and diverted his gaze. “Jesus, Betty. What are you doing?”

“What?” I said innocently. “I can’t sleep with the wire of that bra digging into me.”

I wasn’t lying. I’d been wearing a Calvin Klein push-up bra. Plenty of support and cleavage help in a dress but impossible to get comfortable in bed while wearing.

“Put the shirt on, please,” Archie gritted his teeth. 

“ _Wassamatter_ ,” I slurred with a smirk. “Don’t like what you see?”

Even drunk, I knew the qualities of my dancer’s body. Some people were uncomfortable unless they were dressed up—and covered up—in clothes that highlighted their bodies’ best qualities. As a dancer, my best qualities showed the closer I was down to my underwear. I felt best in dance leotards and even swimsuits. My curves and tone offset each other in all the right places—generous rack, flat stomach, and muscle-defined arms and legs that were small but not chicken-like. I wasn’t some skinny, plastic bimbo whose backside wasn’t as good as the front side. I was long and lean, but I was also completely solid and limber.

Once I managed to find the armholes and my body was swimming in Archie’s shirt, I let myself fall back against the bed. I exhaled, completely relaxed. He groaned, “You are never allowed to drink again. Not under my watch.”

I was back to giggling as he began to pull back the blanket. He had to work around me because I was still in the very center of the bed. He had only exposed a part of one side of the fitted sheet that covered the mattress before he was forced to pause.

“Move up,” he nudged my arm, hovering over me.

Stubbornly, I stretched my arms out, then tried to snake them around Archie’s neck. I uttered a single word, “Help.”

“Okay,” Archie sighed one more time and moved onto the bed completely so he could fulfill my request. “Here we go.”

His hands went under my waist and he lifted me easily, just a few inches off the mattress. “You’re so good to me,” I told him honestly when the back of my head met a pillow.

My vision was spinning. I wasn’t quite sure which direction in front of me was left or right or up or down. The only thing in focus was Archie. He was close; I’d gotten my arms around his neck as I intended. In the dim light, his eyes were pools of bronze that I wanted to get lost in. 

I gravitated up toward him and pulled him down toward me until our lips touched. My eyes shut as I kissed him hard. But that was only the first kiss. The ones after were few and so soft that I barely felt them before he created breathing room between us.

“ _Betty_ ,” Archie hissed, still hovering over me on his elbows. “You’re not supposed to do that. Not now.”

His warning sounded right. I knew there was a reason why I wasn’t supposed to just kiss him as I pleased, but foggy thoughts clouded my mind like skyscrapers, so I couldn’t figure out why. I also knew that I’d already kissed him on several occasions before. My mind was blank on champagne. I didn’t care. I only cared that he was so cute and so close to me and that he was a good guy.

I asked, “Would it be so bad, you and me?”

“I don’t want us to do something we’re gonna regret,” he replied, never answering my question directly.

Still, I drew a blank in my mind. I thought about running my hands through his hair while we made out. I wanted his hands on me and I was sure I wasn’t going to regret it. I finally let go of his neck but I wasn’t done yet.

“When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to?” I spoke softly with glassy bedroom eyes, tracing circles on his torso with my finger. “When’s the last time you just had _fun_?”

He looked down at me for what felt like an eternity. There was an implication in the last thing I said and it was up to him to decide what to do with it. Both of us were silent, just staring at each other and breathing.

The next time I tried to kiss Archie, he let me, and he didn’t try to pull away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hate mail can be directed to the comments section below and my [tumblr ask box](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/ask). 
> 
> Seriously though, whether it's a just a "hi" to let me know that you're here or "I hate everything about this story", I'd love to hear from you! Thank you to all that have shared their thoughts with me. I appreciate it so much.
> 
> A PSA more relevant now than ever: I solemnly swear that Archie’s end goal is the same as mine, a Bughead endgame.
> 
> [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/166843185760/the-con-extended-chapter-notes).
> 
> You're just going to have to trust me with this ending. Don't worry too much. 
> 
> Next chapter: views.


	8. The Views

Archie settled over me, his hips square to mine as we kissed. He’d stayed on his elbows when I wouldn’t let go of him. As our tongues collided, I ran my fingers through his short ginger locks, massaging his scalp and undoing the style set in place by the gel. All I could taste was champagne. When he moved a hand and pressed on one of my hipbones through the fabric of my borrowed shirt, he sent a jolt of electricity through my body. In no time I decided that I wanted him closer and that he was wearing too many clothes.

I was pinned to the bed under his weight, but if ballet had made me anything, it was strong. Sure, he was a football player, but I was a ballet dancer—so we were both athletes. Holding one of his broad shoulders for leverage, I untrapped one of my legs from under his and bent it at the knee so my foot was planted firmly against the mattress. He groaned into my mouth as the movement caused every part of him below the waist to be pressed up against me. Behind closed eyes, I smirked at his response, the response that I wanted.

My hands roamed beneath his shirt. I could feel the muscle definition in his back as he supported himself on top of me. He was ripped all the way up, from his ribs to his shoulders. Noting that an upper body like his seemed right for a college athlete, I went for his shirt, tugging it upwards. His hand left my hip and his lips left mine momentarily as he shrugged the garment off. I watched him and took in the scenery of his chest. I’d seen it before, but not with the new soft focus that my heavy eyelids granted me.

Once we were attached at the mouth again, I went for his chest instead of his back. My fingers grazed over his abs southward, softly and slowly, and Archie pulled away as his breath hitched for a second. He placed a kiss on my throat and nipped at my neck. I pawed at his cheek selfishly until I found his chin and got back what I wanted. I wanted his lips touching my lips. I wanted his tongue on my tongue.

He slid his arm under the small of my back. I tried to hook my bent leg against his thigh and draw him closer but instead he used his athletic strength to outmuscle me, rolling us so that we were both on our sides. He ran his hand down over my ass and leg and kissed me hard before he stopped to speak.

“We can’t do this, Betty,” his voice was a combination of heavy breathing and a harsh whisper.

I ran my hand over his sternum possessively and answered without opening my eyes, breathless, “Why?”

“This isn’t you,” Archie told me. “You’re drunk.”

My eyes flew open with a groan, my haze broken. “Ugh. Why would you wait until you’re half naked and we’re both horny to stop?”

Archie let go of me completely and created some space between us in the bed. I was suddenly furious. Drunken intimacy didn’t rattle me. The interruption of it did. Damn him for not getting wasted with me. I cursed his conscience for kicking in, for not wanting to take advantage of my drunken stupor. Despite his reputation that preceded him, I knew him as more than a jock or a fuckboy, because he’d never treated me like he was just that. Archie Andrews was a certified heartthrob. So I was pretty sure there wasn’t anyone else I’d rather give in to temptation with.

“I’m not the one you want,” Archie spoke gently, the warm timbre of his voice filling the air. “Jughead is.”

And just like that his words broke me, just like sucking all the oxygen out of the room. The soft filters of my vision sharpened back to harsh reality. I remembered how amazing my night had been up until the performance after-party. I remembered hearing about Jughead feeling bad about breaking a girl’s heart and then sweet talking another girl right in front of me, all in the same span of thirty minutes. I remembered _why_ I had gotten drunk off my ass. My heart jumped up to my throat as I remembered everything. Everything over my brother’s best friend.

Like the snapping of fingers, in an instant I went from the girl trying to have drunk sex with Archie to the girl ugly crying in his bed. I covered my eyes with my palms as the first tears fell, but soon my shoulders were shaking and I was biting back sobs. I added more space between Archie and me, scooting as close to the side of the bed as I could, away from him. It didn’t take him long to realize that he had a whole new problem to deal with.

“I—what—Betty—” Archie struggled to settle on the right words. “Are you crying? Why are you crying?”

My intoxication sent my emotions into complete disarray at the mention of Jughead. The realization that it was his earlier actions that had made me completely miserable and throw away my night was jarring. I was jealous and hurt and angry with myself all rolled into one.

“I’m just like her,” I sobbed, then clarified, “like that Sabrina girl.”

“Uh…a crier?”

I almost wanted to laugh but the tears kept falling. Archie was right. Earlier I’d shown sympathy for Sabrina—who I claimed I hated—when Archie mentioned that she cried. And I ended up crying, too, probably worse than she had. But that wasn’t what I meant about being like her. Not even close.

When I sighed it came out as a wheeze. “I just want him to pick me.”

It wasn’t just Sabrina. The girls that Jughead hung out with, the ones who didn’t want to just sleep with him, the ones with feelings, who got their hopes up—they were just like me. Or I was just like them. There were girls just like me in Jughead’s world, and I suspected that even if they never got to girlfriend status, they got closer to my goal than I ever did, because they didn’t wait years to act on their feelings. I had my hopes up for him. I wanted my chance with him. I wanted to be _the_ girl for him. 

All of his supposed jealously had done me no good. At least those girls he shot down had a fighting chance when he took them out on dates and brought them around to his _home_. Nearly two months’ worth of scheming and I hadn’t even gotten anywhere close to that.

“He’s never gonna pick me,” I spoke again, sorrowfully, burying my face in the pillow.

I’d gotten Jughead to notice me. I’d gotten his attention. So why did I feel worse off than when I’d been back in Riverdale at fourteen, and then again last summer, avoiding him at all costs?

“Betts,” Archie touched my back, “look at me.”

“Don’t call me that!” my voice was muffled by the pillow but I was sure that the anger in my voice translated so that Archie heard me loud and clearly.

It was a far cry from the way I reacted earlier in the night. I’d practically purred when Archie attached ‘babe’ to my name when we got ready for bed. But ‘Betts’ was a name that only Jughead ever called me and I didn’t feel floaty anymore.

“Look at me,” Archie repeated, void of any terms of endearment.

Begrudgingly, I whimpered and turned my cheeks from their cushion. I felt more exposed than I ever had in front of him—and I’d already flashed him when he’d been trying so hard to be a gentleman, to help me into his comfortable clothes. Still a gentleman, Archie moved my hair off my face and looked me in the eye. “If you weren’t so into him, you could have any guy you want. You know that, right?”

With a scoff, I pointed out, “You just turned me down for sex like five minutes ago.” 

“That isn’t because I don’t think you’re beautiful or smart or strong. You _are_ all of those things,” Archie said plainly. “That’s why I know that what was about to happen five minutes ago…that’s so beneath you.” 

I began to argue, “It’s—”

Archie pressed a finger to my lips, stopping me, and then brushed a fat tear away from under my eye. “Crying over some guy who probably wants _you_ to pick _him_ , that’s beneath you, too.”

My bottom lip quivered but I tried to smile. I wiped at my eyes and tried to swallow my heart back down to my chest. I was a total mess and Archie was still eager to make me feel better about myself, even after turning down my drunken advances.

“Sorry if I ruined your night,” I sniffed. My voice sounded whiny from all the crying.

“It’s okay. Don’t be sorry.” Archie extended his arms out in the air to me as best that he could from his position in bed. “C’mere.”

He drew me into his arms once I scooted my way back toward him. I settled in against his chest and took one long shaky breath. I was done crying but I needed some time to settle down. My hysterics were all over the place and Archie had talked me down from the ledge _again_. Jughead had been the reason I felt deranged and desperate _again_.

I thought about how Jughead could make me spiral out of control as my shallow breaths subsided into hiccups. Archie didn’t hold me tightly but instead stroked my back. I was sure that what was left of my party makeup had transferred onto at least one of the pillowcases and the sheets but he didn’t complain. He just comforted me.

“Veronica.” My best friend’s name was the first thing I said once the hiccups began to break up my shallow breathing.

“Uh, no,” Archie pulled back a little and pointed at his chest, “Archie.”

“No, I know that,” I narrowed my eyes. The crying had done a lot to quell the soft and fun side of my drunkenness. “I mean, Veronica, do you…like her? The way you guys were talking in the lobby, it seemed like you guys hit it off during the ballet.”

“Why don’t you have a sip of water?” Archie’s eyes shifted and he didn’t meet my questioning gaze. “We don’t have to talk about this while you’re tanked, by the way.”

I sat up and reached over to grab the uncapped bottle of water that Archie had been trying to get me to drink from practically since we made it through the threshold of his apartment. I took down several gulps and wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand when I was done. I slammed the bottle down on the bedside table and laid back down, reaching for the blanket and adjusting it over myself. “Happy?” I popped the ‘p’ syllable with attitude.

Archie gave me a haughty smile. “ _No_.”

“The reason I’m asking,” I returned to the topic of Veronica, “is because I can tell she likes you, too.”

The haughty smile turned into a real smile. “Really?”

“It’s pretty obvious the only thing in the way is me,” I replied. “I do appreciate you staying in character so my best friend doesn’t think I’m dating a scumbag with wandering eyes.”

“I made a commitment to help you,” Archie reminded me. “If that means my own love life is on the back burner for a while, that’s totally fine. I told you I wanted to be doing something more for my friends.”

Even though I was inebriated, I could appreciate the loyalty Archie had for his friends. He’d spent the whole night looking after me, making sure I didn’t make a mistake with him, and we’d been friends for less than two months. The con we were pulling was meant to impact my life, but what about his? I felt guilty that I’d put a damper on his otherwise peachy millennial lifestyle of writing songs and his fraternity social calendar and hot girls he wanted to take to dinner.

“I’ll tell Veronica about us. About what’s really going on,” I decided. “I think I’m probably overdue on telling her anyway.”

I was definitely in need of some time with my best friend. Archie was a great partner for the stunt we’d been pulling, a great friend, and a great confidant to share my woes with. But he wasn’t my best friend and I already knew his stance. I could use some fresh perspective.

Archie raised both his eyebrows and answered with surprise, “Wow.”

“Once I tell her, I’ll give you her phone number. You better call her right away. No head games.” I went on, “Veronica Lodge is not one to wait around for anybody.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” Archie replied with a chuckle.

“And Archie?”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re going to pursue Veronica, you _cannot_ get distracted by a drunk girl who throws herself at you just because you’re trying to be a nice guy,” I scolded him, talking about myself and how I’d come on to him, wasted, and having forgotten about everyone else we cared about.

“I would never take advantage of you, Betty,” Archie said.

“I know that,” I clarified, “but you almost let me take advantage of _you_.”

“I was trying to be what you needed in the moment,” he offered. “I want to get to know Veronica, take her out on a date, but I don’t know her yet. I know you. You’re my friend.”

“And she’s _my_ friend,” I answered.

I knew that I didn’t owe it to Veronica to not sleep with one of her potential suitors, not when she believed that he was my sort-of boyfriend. She’d tried so hard to hide the fact that she liked him; she’d even talked me up to him and shied away from flirting with him. It was easy for me to brush that off because I wasn’t in love with him. But what about her? What if she really liked him or even just thought that she possibly could?

It had always been easy to give off the vibe that Archie and I liked each other because we became fast friends. It was easy to show affection because we were mutually attracted to each other—that played a big role in pulling off our con—it would have been a problem if we weren’t. But I hadn’t banked on that attraction making Archie seem like a viable option to me when I got drunk.

And clearly he wasn’t. He stopped what we were about to do, which if I were keeping a running tally (I wasn’t), only made him more attractive, because I knew he actually cared and was looking out for me. But it went deeper than that. It went to his friendship with Jughead. They weren’t best friends, but they were brothers. Archie was married to the idea that if there was a chance for Jughead and me (which I had serious doubts about after the party), he didn’t want to be the one to ruin that chance. It was a trip to think about how everything between Archie and me—deceiving our friends into believing we were really into each other—was _for_ Jughead. To give him that extra push. For him to come around. For him to pick me. Although he was deceiving his brother, Archie was looking out for him.

So even if Archie could be an option for me, I wasn’t an option for him.

“Look, Betty, maybe you should wait to tell Veronica,” Archie suggested. “Maybe you should tell her once we’re finished with our plan. I want to see this through with you. If she still believes you and I are hanging out or together or whatever, then she won’t be expecting a phone call until after you tell her, right?”

Damn. Archie was pretty confident. He was so sure that calling Veronica would be fruitful for him that he was willing to push it aside until our project was over and done with. My chest tightened, thinking about the con and all the work we’d put in. Thinking about how Cheryl had blown the door wide open. Thinking about Jughead, and how he’d let her.

“I hate him,” I shook my head against the pillow.

Archie didn’t ask me to explain how I’d gone from her, Veronica, to him, Jughead, so quickly. He didn’t believe me either. “You don’t mean that. It’s funny how you can pick up on everyone else’s feelings except for his. I wish you were sober right now so it would make sense to you if I explained how letting him get to you like this is letting him have the upper hand in the game he’s playing. We have to play our con, not his, remember?”

“Well that’s just it,” I whispered. “I don’t think I want to play anymore.”

 

\-----

 

I had meant what I said.

I didn’t want to play out the con anymore. I was over it. As I’d learned from my night of drunkenness, winning and losing didn’t feel very different. If Jughead wasn’t into me, then he could kiss my ass and go to hell or heaven—it didn’t matter to me which one (it was most likely heaven though, since I’d always thought he had so much grace). As for me, I was lucky enough to have a soloist’s role in the Joffrey Ballet’s first cast for _Giselle_ and lucky to have a friend like Archie who didn’t want my lows to be too low.

The morning after my attempt to sleep with my friend and my ugly crying found me completely hungover. Archie didn’t have a Thursday morning class, but he’d gone to get breakfast and come back with a green smoothie for me—to help replenish and balance my electrolyte levels—by the time I’d woken up. He’d refreshed my memory on a few of the past night’s events; I was hazy on some of the details. I remembered freaking out about Jughead and bringing up Veronica, but I was embarrassed when Archie recounted how I’d basically stripped him down to his underwear and shoved my tongue down his throat. He shrugged it off easily but I got plenty of time to be mortified over the fact for the remainder of the week.

Truly, I was blessed to be in the first cast on opening night. There were ten performances of _Giselle_ over twelve days. The show distribution was different for principals, not adhering strictly to first and second cast designation, but being part of the first cast as soloists meant that Trev and I got to do our pas de deux together for three of the performances: opening night, the first Saturday night (the show my parents went to), and closing night, which was actually a Sunday matinée. The bright spot for the two other pairs, splitting the duties of the second cast, was that they got to perform in the Friday night shows and the four other weekend shows. The cast scheduling turned out to be to my advantage because it meant that my drunkenness after the season opening party had no repercussions on my professional life. I didn’t have a class, a rehearsal, or a performance on the day that I woke up with a hangover. I just got to think about the stupid con I was pulling. 

I thought about it a lot, even into the first Friday performance, where in the second cast, I was back with the corps de ballet as one of the Wilis who followed every command of Myrtha, or as she was better known as the artist playing Myrtha, Cheryl Blossom. Being in the background for her time on stage after what I’d seen transpire between her and Jughead made me feel like the scum on the bottom of the blood red Valentino Rockstud T-strap pumps she’d worn to the party—gifted to her by Veronica during the course of their short-lived relationship.

I decided that Archie was right. Of course he was. He always seemed to be as far as the con was concerned. Letting Jughead make me feel like shit? That was beneath me. He was a cute guy from my hometown, but he wasn’t worth pining over. It was just a crush that had gotten out of control to the point that I’d begun to believe it was more than a crush. But I didn’t want to be a victim to that any longer. I was awesome and I could find someone else awesome, too. A dancer or a lawyer or a musician. Maybe even a different writer with dark hair and light eyes.

I was over and done with playing any games. I was sure of it.

Well, until I ended up hanging out with Jughead on a Tuesday afternoon.

Eight days separated my first weekend performance and closing night for the Joffrey Ballet’s autumn program. Those days were treated as modified rehearsal days: company class and a quick run through of our dances. Having a solo role actually meant _less_ rehearsal during performance weeks. Most of the other women in the corps with me were in both acts of _Giselle_ for every performance, as Peasants in the first act and Wilis in the second act. But getting the Peasant pas de deux meant that I was only doing that dance on first cast nights, and only dancing with the corps as a Wili on second cast nights. So for me, I only had one rehearsal to go to each day, a stark contrast to the long days of pas de deux rehearsal followed by Wilis rehearsal followed by understudy rehearsal for a part I’d never dance, at least not in the current season.

It was also good for me because auditions for _The Nutcracker_ were all throughout the week, and I’d prepared for so many. After the closing performance of _Giselle_ , the company’s focus would shift to rehearsing the beloved holiday ballet until December, and even then all through the month for the entire run of performances.

On Tuesday, after my audition for the Arabian Dance, I had a text from Jughead asking if we could head up to the observatory at the John Hancock Center like we’d discussed on his birthday. He also mentioned that he had his motorcycle downtown so could give me a ride home after. I hadn’t seen much of him since opening night. He hadn’t knocked on my door early in the morning to interrupt breakfast or give unsolicited advice about dating Archie in a while. I’d avoided him, too, over the last couple of nights, knowing his schedule and planning the perfect time to get home if I thought it was a night that he was likely to be in the apartment with Chic.

Even though the Art Institute and SAIC were less than a mile away from Joffrey Tower and the Auditorium Theatre, I had yet to see Jughead in the Loop out of the blue. In fact, the only time I’d ever seen him downtown was the morning we had breakfast together, when it dawned on me that he might be pulling his own con. When his text came through about the Hancock Center, I’d already avoided him for almost a week. I told myself that it was a good thing. It was the appropriate time to cleanse myself of the gameplay that had taken over my life. The con had yet to affect my professional life, but I’d come pretty close. If Archie hadn’t been looking out for me at the season opening party, I might have done something reckless and destructive. So it was time, once and for all, to prove to myself that Jughead could be as insignificant to me as I seemed to be to him. Besides, I couldn’t bail on him when I’d promised— _before_ everything that happened at the party—that I would go with him.

Straight from my audition and a quick shower, I changed into dark blue jeans, a royal blue collared-shirt, and a pastel blue sweater over top of that. It was a bit of a monochrome look. I put on my gray fall jacket that was good against wind and rain, and took the red line from the Loop to River North. My hair was still wet as I combed it as neatly and as quickly as I could into a tight ponytail, looking down at my lap into a tiny compact mirror that served as a makeshift vanity until I had to get off only two stops away. I met Jughead outside the Water Tower.

He had a morning shift at work, and he was dressed as such—suspenders dangling from dark jeans, gray Henley and green flannel under a slate-colored Sherpa jacket, and hair crushed under his beanie. The Papyrus he worked at was inside Water Tower Place, which wasn’t far from the Hancock Center. We walked over to the Hancock Center and once in front of it, we stood there with feet firmly planted, with Jughead looking up. He wasn’t looking up at the sky. He wasn’t daydreaming and he wasn’t making animals of the clouds. He was looking up at the exterior of the building, at how high up it went, at how high up we would go.

His eyes that mirrored the sky never left the building’s façade as he made one of his typical remarks, “Ready to enter the belly of the beast?”

“It’s a skyscraper, Juggie.” I shook my head at his cynical literary reference to prison.

“Let’s just go in, hmm?” he hummed and motioned toward the revolving door that would lead inside, as if _I_ was the hold up. “I know we’ve both got better things to do.”

With a sigh, I reached into the base of my ponytail with both hands and pulled it even tighter.

“Are you sure this is gonna be okay?” I asked Jughead when we were inside the admission hall at street level. We both showed our driver’s licenses at the reception desk and were granted 50% off admission for having addresses within Chicago city limits. We were just waiting for the next elevator up. “You don’t like heights and that’s fine. It’s not too late to back out.”

“I know what I’m getting into,” Jughead retorted, “and I’m sure I can appreciate something beautiful once I see it.”

I smirked. “I seem to recall someone throwing items from his backpack at me from the top of the monkey bars until I went to get an adult.”

“Come on, Betts, that was like a million years ago.” Jughead clicked his tongue. “I’m a big boy now.”

It felt kind of nice to have something to tease Jughead about. I’d spent so much of my time around him praying that I wouldn’t look foolish, feeling pathetic, and trying to get him to see me in a different light. Sometimes I forgot to think about him as just another human, one that I knew details about from childhood. He’d been as much a constant in my life as my brother from seven to fourteen. I didn’t think I’d learned much more about him in the last two months, but I did still know little things about him.

I knew his favorite color and his favorite meal. I knew how much he valued his friendship with Chic. I knew what reminded him of home. But I also knew—and I’d been reminded when Jellybean was in town when he moved in—that he wasn’t fond of heights as a kid, and that it still held true. The anecdote of him as a 10-year-old boy climbing to the top of the monkey bars and being too scared to get down on his own once he saw the distance to the ground was one example. He could deny it and reason that he was an adult, a writer who sought to observe the human condition, but I knew it was still true. Besides, if he didn’t have a problem with heights, he wouldn’t have prefaced the favor of asking me to go with him using that sentiment. If he wasn’t scared, he would have paid for admission that included the Tilt surcharge, and he didn’t.

But who was I to stop him? We were sharing a theme of the day by facing our fears. I was ten minutes deep into being around him without panicking in my head, and he was taking on an observation deck that was 1000 feet above the Magnificent Mile.

“Why are we doing this again?” I wondered once we were in the elevator. There was a young family on the ride up with us. The preschool aged son was excited.

“It’s for my ‘Views’ class,” was Jughead’s simple response as the ascent up toward the 94th floor began.

“Views… _from the 6_?” I followed up with the first thing the came to mind.

The cover of Drake’s last proper album, _Views_ , was a Photoshopped picture of him sitting on the edge of the CN Tower in his own hometown, Toronto. I remembered that Kevin had taken to coming up with choreography for one of the pre-release leaked tracks from the album, back when it was being referred to as _Views from the 6_. And Jughead’s grad program was at an art school, so I could totally see there being a class named after that.

“Well, we’re in Chicago so technically it would be _Views from the 3_ , right? But the professor for the class is like in his mid-fifties, so I doubt he’s taking cues from Drizzy. He writes about this city the way Joan Didion writes about Los Angeles though.” Jughead went on, “Anyway, at the beginning of the semester we got a list of places around the city to take in views from and then write about. This is one of my last ones on the list.”

The recording of the visitor guide began over the speaker, gushing about how smooth the ride was and dictating specifics about how high we were going and at what speed. My ears popped. I bit my lip and watched the look on Jughead’s face change as he watched the small black paneled number display that counted up with each floor of our ascension. He looked a little stunned when we were let out of the elevator, a thousand feet above land, less than a minute after we’d gotten in.

A moment lapsed and we were just standing in the vicinity of the elevators, in front of the signs that pointed to different directions of where to go. Behind the signs, after several strides, were the windows of the lookout, offering a panoramic view of an afternoon in Chicago that was nearing sunset.

“You feeling okay, Jug?” I asked, seeing that his face was nearly drained of all color. “What do you want to do?” 

“I’m fine,” he rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to puke all over your boots if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Well that’s good.” I looked down at my suede boots with a bit of a heel and quipped, “These are my favorite pair of boots.”

With narrowed eyes, he shoved my shoulder playfully and I laughed as we began walking. His own boots, his favorite pair of combat boots, thudded lightly with each step against the carpet. “Come on,” he said, “I should take some pictures on my phone.”

“You know,” I returned, taking a step in the direction of the walkway that gave the best view of the lake, “the pictures would have looked so much cooler if you took them through the tilting glass.”

The big attraction of the observatory was called _Tilt_ , a row of the building windows that had been modified to allow patrons to step onto the window ledge and tilt a fully enclosed sliding component to a 30-degree angle. It was a more accurate bird’s eye view of the city.

“You know I don’t like heights, therefore you tell me to go hang out on the glass that will quite literally give me the view of the fall to my death? Do you _want_ me to get vertigo?” he scrunched his brows together. “What kind of friend are you!”

“Oh, so now you admit it?” My laughter bubbled over.

When I mentioned the tilting glass, I was serious but I was also challenging him. I wanted to see how far he would go to keep up the charade that he was totally cool being in a confined stationary space in the sky, where, unlike a plane, he couldn’t just shut the window shade. Jughead wasn’t acrophobic _per se_. Like the story of the monkey bars, his biggest qualm with heights was that he was not a fan of seeing how far down the earth was, _directly below his feet_ , when he was up high. That was why Jughead in his youth had been the beanie-crowned prince of his own tree house: it was an elevated escape with a curtain and a window, but he didn’t have to look down at the ground beneath his sneakers.

“Come on,” he muttered, grabbing onto my elbow gently. “Let’s get this over with.”

I’d been to 360 Chicago inside the Hancock Center only once before, as a field trip when I was still in high school at the Joffrey Academy. It hadn’t changed much except in name—it had been called the John Hancock Observatory back then. Heights didn’t faze me. I felt dizzy when I was drunk, but never from seeing how far away the ground was. There were far scarier scenarios I’d willingly put myself in for ballet. If I really thought about it, partnered ballet dancing was, to a certain extent, _madness_. I put my complete trust in my partner to lift me by the palm of his hands—sometimes with just one hand—and maneuver my body all in time to music.

Having been reminded of dance life by heights, I brought up the dance-related thoughts that wouldn’t leave my mind, and I tried my damn hardest to keep my tone casual. “So I saw you talking to Cheryl at the party the other night.”

“Yeah,” Jughead nodded as we walked past a group of tourists, clearly identified by the lanyards and digital SLRs around their necks. “I didn’t realize I was going to run into anyone I knew at that party.”

“Wait, _what_?” I stopped dead in my tracks, and Jughead was holding my elbow, so he had to stop, too. “You know Cheryl?”

“I mean I don’t _know her_ know her.” Jughead used simple language to clarify. “I met her a few times back in Michigan, at the lit mag office.”

“That’s impossible,” I countered. “Cheryl didn’t go to Michigan. Cheryl didn’t go to _college_. She came up through the ranks at Joffrey with me – she’s always been two years ahead.”

“No, I never said she was a student there,” Jughead pointed out. “She dated the senior editor, Dilton, for a while.”

“Oh.” It dawned on me how lame the single-syllable word sounded as realization hit me. “ _Oh_.”

“Imagine my surprise when your friend Veronica came over and they revealed that they’re ex-girlfriends,” Jughead continued. “Like, I get that sexuality is fluid—and I fully support that—but if you ever met Dilton…he and Veronica are definitely _not_ the same.”

Was that what had happened? Had Jughead only been saying ‘hello’ to an old acquaintance? Had I gotten stupid drunk and decided to throw in the towel over _catching up_?

I thought back to their body language. The way Cheryl had touched his arm and stood close to him, looked up at him with her red lipstick and flirty smile. The way Jughead ran his hand through his beanie-less hair and talked animatedly. Those images weren’t lost from my mind.

“Looked like you guys were having a good time,” I said, choosing my words carefully to see what Jughead’s reaction would be.

“We were talking about Dilton and his mannerisms. I do a fantastic impression of him and Cheryl was yucking it up like a hyena. And I didn’t feel bad about impersonating him because, honestly, that guy was always a total dick to our entire staff around deadline week, as if he was running _The New Yorker_ ,” Jughead recalled. “At the party I thought…well, we all looked over and acknowledged you. Including Cheryl, right? Chic and I told her you were his sister. Did I do something wrong?”

The pit in my stomach grew with Jughead’s confirmation that I’d thought the worst about him without bothering to know any of the context.

Cheryl was easy to guess. If I’d thought the smile she sent me was sinister, then it probably was. She despised me so much, as Veronica’s best friend, that knowing my brother and his friend weren’t hanging around with me at an event that they’d been invited to because of me undoubtedly set fuel to her fire. Of course she lingered talking to them. Of course she made the eyes at my brother’s cute friend, expecting I would tell him to stay away from her, and expecting that he wouldn’t be able to resist. That was Cheryl’s petty _modus operandi_.

“No, of course not,” I finally answered Jughead’s question. “I just can’t believe you never told me you knew her.”

“Like I said, I only met her a few times, and it was a few years ago,” he reiterated. “It never occurred to me back then to ask her where she was from or why she always showed up on the weekends. I didn’t get her life story, Betty. I had no idea you guys were in the same ballet company together. I was surprised that she came up to me and remembered who _I_ was.”

If Jughead had looked flirty or passionate from twenty feet across the room of the party, where I’d been standing with Archie, it was because he’d been fully immersed in his impression. If he’d laughed and smiled at Cheryl the way he did with friends, it was because he did know her. Barely. But it wasn’t anything more.

Internally, I huffed at myself. “Small world, huh?”

“I don’t know what you think happened, but that conversation was pretty much over as soon as Veronica came over. We were all there for you, Betty. Parties are so not my scene – you already know that.” Jughead spoke with creased temple, making me feel worse. “You and Archie skipped out pretty early. You have a good night?”

Oh, how quickly Jughead turned the tables on me.

“I…” I trailed off. “I had too much to drink. Dance high, you know? It escalated fast. Archie took me home so I could sleep it off.”

I left out the part regarding why I’d gotten plastered, because of my assumptions about him. It was Jughead I was talking to, the son of an alcoholic. Jughead, who very rarely drank, and when he did, nursed the same beer all night. I highly doubted that he would find my drunkenness very attractive.

He studied my face for a prolonged moment. The look on his face was almost like the expression he’d had in the backyard on his birthday. The only difference was that I wasn’t touching him and his eyes were wide open.

“Right,” Jughead uttered when he settled on a word. “Well, at least you had fun. It was your night. That was the point, wasn’t it?”

He was right. It had been my night and everyone that had come out because of me had made it very clear that they supported that. Knowing the truth about what _didn’t_ transpire with Cheryl, Jughead especially had been supportive. Because sure, we were kind of friends, but were we really? I kept complaining about his mixed signals and how I couldn’t get a read on him, but wasn’t what he’d shown me in the last few weeks just…signals? He’d complimented me when we talked in the backyard. He got dressed up and went to the ballet for me—he’d even taken off his beanie. He stopped hanging out with Sabrina, who he was supposed to collaborate on a school assignment with, for what? _For me_?

It was when a snotty-faced kid came running at me full speed and I veered to the left to avoid him that I realized Jughead and I had stopped moving toward our window destination. We’d carried on a conversation involving Cheryl and my drunkenness at a full stop, smack dab in the middle of a walkway. The kid was the first one to interrupt, and no one had given us the side-eye because it was a slow Tuesday afternoon at the observatory.

I steeled my nerves, reminding myself what my intention was in making the trip up to the observatory with Jughead. But knowing the truth about the party, that everything had been all in my head, I asked myself if it changed things. And if it did, could I still turn things around?

“The point?” I used some of the last words Jughead spoke as my own transition. “Juggie, I think the point is that you’re stalling.”

“ _You_ are the one who stopped in the middle of the hall,” he retorted.

“Quit whining,” I grinned at him as I felt my wits gathering. “Start walking.”

The 94th floor of the Hancock Center was really one big carpeted hallway that went in a circle. The window panels were from floor to ceiling, giving the bird’s eye view of the city below. There were more than a few steps’ distance between the back wall, where the elevators were located, and the windows. I thought it was a reasonable distance, not suddenly overwhelming, and not with nowhere else to look. Young children (and some older ones, too) showed their fearlessness, bodies pressed right up against the low metal guard rail (as close to the glass as they could get) that encircled the entire perimeter like a ballet barre.

Jughead shifted closer to me as we neared an expanse of the lookout with only a few other people. We walked side by side toward the glass. As we neared the edge of the carpet, we came to our next dead stop. He tilted his chin downward and leaned toward the window for just a second before making a face. “Gross.”

Beside us, a little girl with her chestnut hair in pigtails stepped up to the window and clung to the railing, calling for her mother to come and see. I smiled and spoke to Jughead, “You don’t have to look down. I can take the pictures for you if you want.”

“That wouldn’t really help me,” he grumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck momentarily. “It’s the experience of the view I need to write about. Not the pictures of it.”

He took a deep breath and stepped up to the guard rail, looking to the buildings and streets below. Jughead wasn’t a big boy when he did that. When he grimaced, he was still that kid stuck on the monkey bars. Without warning, he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward himself so we were both looking out at the world through the clear glass.

My heart stopped. And then it raced. Maybe it just made him feel better, having a hand to hold when he was afraid to look down—I’d been the one to suggest Sabrina for that exact purpose on his birthday, after all. And all I could think was that Jughead was holding my hand instead. He wasn’t doing it as part of any formality or tradition, like when we’d danced together (to a Drake song from _Views_ , no less) on the yacht that Hiram Lodge rented for Veronica’s end of summer party. Jughead was holding my hand _in public_ , by choice, at one of the city’s tourist destinations. There were other people holding hands in the observatory. They were _couples_ and they were doing it affectionately.

The grip of Jughead’s palm was tight against mine as we looked down. All around the 94th floor, the windows were spotless for optimal viewing of the city. From where we stood, there was a spectacular view of the Navy Pier and the museum campus, then the depths of Lake Michigan, sparkly with ripples under the setting sun, until it faded into the horizon.

Jughead stroked the back of my hand with his thumb once—so softly and gently that I would have missed it if I weren’t so hyperaware of him touching me—before letting go of my hand. But I never got the chance to be disappointed that the contact was over. Instead, he brought me closer to his body and draped an arm around my shoulders. 

“Okay, this isn’t so bad after all.” The pained expression from his face was gone and replaced with a smile as he spoke. It was one of those smiles he saved for the people who were closest to him.

And oh, it _was_ bad. My stomach was doing cartwheels. He wasn’t looking at the view out the window anymore. His neck was craned to the side, in my direction, and he was only looking at me.

The floor beneath me might as well have cracked, and then the ground could’ve opened up to swallow me whole. I was wrong. I couldn’t get over Jughead in one afternoon. In fact, while debating with myself if I should be done with the con, it was the most comfortable I’d been around him in years. Grabbing my hand and then putting his arm over my shoulders was something new and unfamiliar for him, something I wouldn’t have expected. But it was what I wanted. It was the best time I’d had with him in years—being able to tease him but also being his hand-holding hero.

There was no pressure and it was easy. I actually had the ability to communicate with Jughead and it was fun. It felt better than any first date I’d ever been on. It felt like something I should be doing all the time.

I really wanted to call Archie and tell him the news, to say that I’d changed my mind, and once again admit that he was right, that I shouldn’t make rash decisions based on champagne emotions. I couldn’t just give up on our con. I was a Cooper, after all, and Coopers weren’t quitters. The six days between the party and the observatory were just a needed break, and the two months of rolling the dice weren’t a waste. I’d already figured out before that it was more than a crush I had on Jughead. Standing there with him, with the weight of his hand on my shoulder, and my heart heavy in my chest, I realized it was more than that, too. The way that I’d hurt when I was drunk, it hurt that bad because it was real. Nothing about the way I felt about Jughead was childish or schoolgirl. My feelings shook me to my very core. So, no, I couldn’t just get over him, and I wouldn’t be okay if Jughead didn’t like me back. I was in too deep. I was all in.

It was time to talk to Veronica.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/)? Read the [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/167189561440/the-con-extended-chapter-notes)?
> 
> Still a PSA: I solemnly swear that Archie’s end goal is the same as mine, a Bughead endgame.
> 
> I am absolutely floored by the response to the last chapter, a chapter that I thought for sure would have a lot of people quitting on the story. I can’t say thank you enough! I hope you know that I am so so so appreciative! I am happy to get your thoughts and theories, always. So, like, please keep doing that? Thank you for reading. <3
> 
> Next chapter: No more going in circles. No more playing games. No more messing around. Unless you’ve pieced it all together already, prepare to have your mind blown. I’m setting this thing on fire.


	9. The Fortress

“Betty Cooper, you little minx!” 

From the corner of my eye, in my peripheral vision, I saw the person two tables away snicker into his omelette at Veronica’s words. 

Hanging out with Veronica for a meal was always a bit of a lavish affair, even if the places we ended up weren’t always lavish. Being a socialite turned ‘it girl’ meant that local businesses were eager to get Veronica through their doors. After my counseling session with Dr. Donahue and performance week company class in the morning at Joffrey, I met Veronica at a restaurant in Streeterville that looked like it was a backdrop for a crime novel brought to life. The restaurant was a few months into serving Friday brunch so sought out that (if not for Veronica) it required prior reservation weeks in advance. 

“V,” I hissed under my breath, “can you keep it down?” 

“I knew it!” Veronica ignored my plea completely and continued at the same volume. “I knew under those ballet pink leotards and tight ponytails that there was a vixen in disguise!” 

“Well actually…” I trailed off and took a sip of my lemon water before I made my next reveal, “it was mostly Archie’s idea.” 

It hadn’t taken long for Veronica to ask me how things were going with Archie once we were seated at our table. My confession to her, about how my ‘hanging out’ with Archie was all a sham, began with an _“I have something I need to tell you…”_ and my fingers pressed against the pads of my thumbs with tension. I revealed to her that dating Archie was really fake dating Archie, that it was an elaborate ploy to get someone else’s attention. And I told her that someone was Jughead Jones. 

I told her about Robot Date Night and crashing a night of video games at Archie’s apartment with Reggie. I told her about my failure to hold Jughead’s attention during opening night and the lack of action that happened when I was drunk, just Archie being a stand-up guy until I fell asleep. I told her about what happened at the observation deck just a few days earlier. Veronica sipped on her mimosa with the devious smile that she got when she approved of shenanigans playing on her lips. Given my all too recent disaster of a drunken night, I’d opted not to pair my brunch meal with even a hint of alcohol. I did still have three more performances of _Giselle_ left, including one later in the evening. 

“Now _there’s_ the ultimate plot twist,” Veronica drummed her fingers against the tall glass of her drink. “The Outlander fabricated the underlying plot to your love life. He is some kind of special, that guy.” 

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Archie is…he’s really something.” 

“Oh my God, wait—” Veronica gasped dramatically and cut herself off. “Is that why you were so bothered by Cheryl? Because of BBBFF? Is that why you got yourself to a late 90’s teen rom-com level of plastered?” 

“Um…BBBFF?” I said quizzically. 

“Big bro’s BFF,” she responded nonchalantly with a nod, as if it should’ve been obvious. 

I cringed. “I thought they were flirting. I was jealous. Turns out they’ve met before. Did you know your ex-girlfriend used to date someone in Ann Arbor?” 

“Frankly, I’d be surprised if Cheryl could even point Ann Arbor out on a map, much less admit she ever spent time there. That’s Cheryl for you though.” Veronica veered the conversation back on the track she’d put it, “Anyway, don’t worry about the party. I wasn’t obvious about why I went over there. Cheryl thought I wanted to catch up and the apple of your eye thought I was back to hound him about being featured on my channel. I played them both perfectly. Plus gushed about how amazing you and Trev were, of course.” 

She talked so fast and so excitedly that all I could do was clutch my hand to my heart with appreciation. “Thank you, V. Really.” 

“So. Talk to me about this Jughead.” Veronica came to a full stop expectantly. “As your best friend, I think I should be mad that you kept me out of loop for so long. But I am willing to forgive as long as you spill the details. Details, B, I need details.” 

A confession such as mine required further explanation. I knew that. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly what I needed to reveal though. 

“I don’t…I don’t know.” I slumped back in my seat. 

“Well, is this a new thing or an old thing?” Veronica supplied a starter question. 

“A bit of both, I guess. I had a huge crush on him when I left Riverdale. And then this summer, when I saw him, all those crush feelings came rushing back.” I got the floaty fluttering of butterflies in my stomach just speaking of my feelings out loud. “Then I found out he was moving here. _Then_ I found out he was moving into my building. It all just kind of encircled me.” 

“Oh my God, _swoon_. You just got Disney Princess heart eyes,” Veronica cooed. “You are so smitten. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this about anyone.” 

“I’ve known him for so long and I _do_ feel like I really know him,” I said. “Lately it feels like…like maybe he could have some of the same feelings. And maybe we could have something that I thought would never happen.” 

“So pulling a con with Big Red has worked then? Jughead’s reciprocated your feelings?” 

“Honestly? It’s hard to tell with him. He’s always so hot and cold.” I sighed deeply. “Sometimes he’ll let his guard down and we have a good time together, and it’s like everything falls into place. But then other times he has the fortress on complete lockdown. He gets a rise out of me and I get nothing from him. It’s like he’s playing games, too.” 

“Oh, Betty.” Veronica shook her head pensively. “As much as I love the idea of you pulling one over on him, and as much as it sounds like he’s got some seriously repressed feelings for you, I don’t want you to end up hurt if this goes badly. Please be careful.” 

 _Be careful_. Those were the same precautionary words Jellybean had warned me with when the con was in its infancy, before I’d gotten in so deep. 

“I think it’s a little late for that,” I admitted. “I’ve placed my bets and all my cards are on the table.” 

“That’s a romantic sentiment as long as it doesn’t blow up in your face.” Veronica spoke with concern. “I mean, what happens if this all goes awry when Archie’s not there to tuck you in and make sure you sleep it off? What if you _can’t_ sleep it off?” 

I smirked. “When Archie’s already in your bed, you mean?” 

“When he _what_?” 

“Archie definitely likes you.” I transitioned to the next part of the conversation that I needed to have with Veronica, the part I’d promised Archie I would bring up. “And I know you’re curious about him, too.” 

“Betty—” 

“It’s okay, V. Both of you respected the fake relationship, and I’m thankful for that, but I know you’ve wanted to flirt and hook up since, like, the moment you saw each other,” I assured her. “I told Archie that once I told you the truth about what’s going on that I’d give him your number. Whether he calls you or texts you…I think you should respond.” 

Veronica drew circles around the rim of her long-stemmed glass. “Okay, I will admit that your fake boy toy did catch my eye, no surprise there, because I always knew you had good taste. But are you sure about this? There are no looming feelings, no signals that got crossed? You both had me fooled. I could have sworn that boy was all about you.” 

“I think Archie and I are attracted to each other and maybe even like each other a little, but it’s all for the purpose of our con.” I smiled at Veronica. “If you thought he was into me, just think how he’s gonna be around you if you give him a chance. Just try not to eye-fuck each other at his gig next week, okay? I assume he’ll invite you to that. Jughead will be there and he’s still supposed to think that Archie and I are involved.” 

“Hold on.” Veronica raised one of her eyebrows that she paid good money to have skillfully threaded every other week. “You mean it’s not over yet? There’s still a chance to participate?” 

“ _Participate_?” I repeated her last word incredulously. “You just warned me about how dangerous this is. You want to get involved?” 

“I want you to be careful, I never said I didn’t want you to come out on top.” A smile broke out on her face and she adjusted the pearls around her neck. “Lucky for you, I’m meeting with Jughead next week. I can get my own read on him.” 

“So he’s doing it? The feature for your channel?” I asked, genuinely surprised. “You got him to agree to that?” 

“It’s no wonder you’re getting stonewalled by him. That guy drives a hard bargain.” Veronica shook her head. “He agreed to a pre-interview. To discuss what would be in the actual feature. These writer types are so hard impress, they all think they’re so unique and out there.” 

I glanced around us at the impressively packed bookshelves that served as decor. “You should have brought _him_ here. Food and film noir are, like, among his top interests.” 

Veronica scoffed at that. “He picked some coffee shop in Wicker Park that I’m pretty sure sells frou-frou drinks. Mr. Caulfield is just not as different as he thinks.” 

“Actually, V, Jug only drinks black coffee,” I countered. “It’s probably a local roaster.” 

“Ugh. God,” Veronica groaned. “If you start dating him, we’re gonna see each other even less. I don’t have the patience for those elitist hipster places.” 

I giggled into my toast. 

“But, anyway, about Archie’s gig,” Veronica went on, “I have an idea – if he invites me, I just won’t go.” 

“Participation by non-participation,” I mused out loud. 

“Well the way I see it, Archie has to fulfill his obligation to you while the Phantom of Broodtown is around, whatever that entails.” Veronica shrugged. “If Archie wants to go out, we’ll just have to go somewhere Jughead _won’t_ be.” 

“You make it all sound so easy,” I said with the shake of my head. 

“Oh, honey, it is. You just called in The A Team.” Veronica gestured at herself and flipped her hair over her shoulder with an air of righteousness. “Now, next order of business: when are we going to tell Kevin?”

 

\-----

 

Cozying up to Archie when Jughead was around proved to be a difficult task when the last weekend of October, after my sky-high hangout with Jughead and brunch with Veronica, was so jam-packed. I had closing weekend for _Giselle_ and Archie had an away football game in Western Illinois. 

The last days of October and the first few of November—all weekdays—were rest days for me, one glorious full week of rest before a month of preparation for _The Nutcracker_. Archie told me about a Halloween party his fraternity was hosting and suggested I go if I really wanted to let loose, without the pressure of knowing Jughead was watching from somewhere (he would rather be six feet under than ever attend a frat party), but I told him to invite Veronica instead. The fallout of the Joffrey party had made me realize how much of an impact our con had on Archie’ social life, and I thought that if we were to continue conning, then he deserved some fun time to himself without having to see or think about me for a few days. 

When the calendar turned and brought with it November, two days after Halloween, it was time for Archie’s gig at Schubas Tavern. He was slotted as the opening artist to start early, right at seven o’clock, which meant that as a supportive friend, I had to get there even earlier. The number of people in the main bar—the _tavern_ —was still pretty scarce when I arrived with Kevin and Trev, just past six in the evening. It was mostly jock apparel and sweaters with Greek letters: Archie’s support squad. The indie aficionado bar crowd had yet to arrive. Kevin had flown in at the beginning of the week to teach a few master classes at one of the big modern dance studios in town. Trev and I had just spent our afternoon off at one of Kevin’s workshops, learning the choreography for a number that had been performed at a recent _iHeartRadio_ event. 

Auditions and casting for _The Nutcracker_ were complete. Trev and I were disappointed to find out that while we did get roles that we wanted, we would no longer be partners. I proposed that he join Kevin and I for a drink at Schubas in order for us to make a toast to our successful partnership. The two of them had been roommates for a year during our dance academy days, and when I told Trev about Kevin’s master class, we’d decided to make a day of it. I figured that with Veronica’s intended absence, I ought to bring some of my dance friends to the bar with me. I knew Archie would be occupied by a million different things for his performance and that I wouldn’t be at his side for the night. Once again, it wasn’t the right time or place to make gains on Jughead.

But I still had to be there for Archie’s big night, just like he’d been at mine. Jughead was supposed to think that Archie and I wanted to be all over each other but couldn’t be because Archie would have to prepare and then play. It was all so complicated, all for the con. Regardless, Archie had become one of my really good friends over the last two months. Showing up to his gig didn’t feel like fulfillment of a role that was going to help me get the guy I wanted. It didn’t feel like obligation because I owed him either. I was happy to be there to show my support and cheer him on.

I sent Archie a text once Kevin, Trev, and I arrived. Since there was some time before the music started, the three of us settled into a corner table by one of the dartboards. We ordered suicide wings and a pitcher of beer. 

For Trev and myself, preparation for the holiday shows would be grueling just as the preparation for the autumn program had been. The year before, for the inaugural season with the new _Nutcracker_ , the company had begun the piece from scratch, with only a one-page synopsis of the story and our choreographer’s vision. We’d worked on _The Nutcracker_ from the very start of dance season in August through December. Since it was no longer rubbing two sticks together and hoping they caught fire, and haven taken the time to premiere _Giselle_ for the autumn program, it was back to the usual approach of rehearsing _The Nutcracker_ from November until the first performance in December, with few full-on rehearsals through December. I was thrilled about the parts I’d been cast for; a pas de deux in the Spanish Dance, one of four dancers in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, as an understudy for the Arabian Dance and a Snow soloist, and corps roles as a Snowflake (of course) and fair worker. But it would be no easy feat. For most dance companies, _Nutcracker_ time was (maybe ironically) crunch time. We never worked harder under such unforgiving time constraints than during the holidays. 

On Monday, we’d be back at the studios in Joffrey Tower and pretty much spend all our waking hours dancing our hearts into the New Year. We deserved to indulge during our week off. Besides, the beer on tap wouldn’t affect me the same way as champagne. 

As for Kevin, he would be on the earliest non-red eye flight back to LA in the morning. He had a master class to teach that same day and rehearsal for a performance at the American Music Awards after that. He was just as busy as a dancer in a company, if not even busier. I was thankful that Kevin still managed to make time for me when he was in town and that our close friendship continued beyond our adolescence. There were no hard feelings that he never made it to any of the _Giselle_ performances because he had his own life and success to tend to, and I was so proud of him. 

When Archie replied to my text, he asked me to meet him at the entrance to the music hall. I walked over once my friends and I sent our order off to the kitchen. Archie hovered in the doorway to the music hall, bouncing on his feet, preoccupied with nervous energy. I stepped into his line of sight and he blew out a breath before flashing me his lopsided grin. 

“Hey you,” he greeted. 

We came together for a brief hug once I was standing right in front of him. “Hey.”

“Have you been here long?” Archie asked once we both stepped back from each other. “Sorry, I’ve been distracted. I don’t even know when your text came through.” 

“Just fifteen minutes or so. I figured you were busy, so I didn’t want to make a big commotion and interrupt,” I shrugged and nodded my neck in the direction of the dartboard. “I brought some of my friends.”

“Betty, that’s great. Thanks.” Archie shuffled his feet like he was deciding if he should begin walking or not. “Should I go over and say ‘hi’?”

“No.” I put my hand to his chest for emphasis. “Kevin knows about our deal now, and I think he’d bring it up, which could get weird because then I’d have to explain it to Trev. He’s a great friend and colleague but definitely not inner circle.” 

Veronica had volunteered to skip the gig but she’d also convinced me to let Kevin in on the details. If she couldn’t attend for fear of being a distraction, then Kevin would have to be her eyes and ears. She wanted an outside opinion to observe and said that I couldn’t be objective since it was me that everything was happening to. When I’d told them both that I doubted anything major would happen at the bar, Kevin merely rolled his eyes at me and promised Veronica he would get back to her with a progress report. Letting my friends in on the details of the con meant that Archie was no longer the only one I had to talk to about it, which was nice, but it also complicated matters. 

“Okay then, I won’t go over there.” Archie kept his laugh low when he replied. “This is why I told you to keep things on a need to know basis. Don’t say I never told you so.”

I saw him glance behind me and the smile left over from his laughter turned wider. Archie took my fingers from his chest and curled them against his palm so that we were holding hands. His next words were soft so that only I could hear him, “He’s watching us, you know.”

Before I even thought to text Archie after I walked into the bar, I’d seen him—Jughead. He was still in the same spot, sitting in a booth with Reggie across from him. Understandably, being out somewhere with his archenemy, he looked particularly annoyed at whatever Archie’s roommate was saying. The telltale signs of Jughead’s signature scowl were etched on his face, two small indentations just above his eyebrows. 

With a half step, I shuffled closer to Archie than I already was and flashed a smile of my own. “Good.”

“I would kiss you right now but…” Archie trailed off.

But we were in a room occupied mostly by his friends and teammates that had shown up early to see him play, Archie meant. If he kissed me, I would either be the girl he was dating or his _flavor of the month_ as Reggie had so kindly inferred the night of my first sleepover at their apartment. That was who I would be perceived as by anyone that looked up from their games or drinks and saw us. We couldn’t risk it, especially since Veronica had entered the picture behind the scenes.

“It’s fine,” I replied and squeezed his hand once before letting go. “You look great, by the way. The crowd is gonna eat you up.”

It was the absolute truth. The teal of his button down shirt made his eyes look extra hazel. His side-swept red hair contributed to his boy band good looks. And the golden retriever-like attentiveness he sported _always_ looked good on Archie.

“I hope they’re paying more attention to the music than my outfit. I wore what I thought I should for the occasion, I guess,” he said, glancing down at his jeans and Converse before giving me an exaggerated once over. “You, on the other hand, look like you mean business. You look awesome, Betty.”

Since I had the day off and had spent most of it with Kevin, I’d gotten ready in his hotel room and tried on several outfits that I brought with me until we landed on one that he deemed was ‘hot in a way that’s appropriate for a Thursday night concert’. I’d gone with a form-fitting oxblood-colored sweater dress paired with opaque navy tights. To keep it casual, I’d put on a pair of oxfords and gathered my blonde hair into a simple low ponytail. The dress showed off my shoulders and clavicles. My lips, tinted with lipstick that matched my dress, were quite a few shades darker than I usually wore. Kevin claimed that the word used to describe my look was _sultry_ : pretty without looking like I was begging for attention.

“Thanks. You’re the best, Arch. I know you’ll be great tonight.” I leaned in and shifted onto my toes so that I could kiss him on the cheek. As was customary in ballet, I whispered my good luck wish to him, “ _Merde_.”

Before sending me off back to my table, Archie told me that if I stuck around long enough after he played, he’d come find me to get his own progress report. My friends were still waiting on our basket of wings but their game of darts was short lived because they weren’t very good. They topped off their pint glasses with what was left in the beer pitcher and requested another from our server.

Trev wanted to get a round of shots for our toast once our server had already left for the bar (I decided that as long as it wasn’t champagne, I was in the clear). He was particularly fond of her and wanted every excuse for her to keep returning to our table. She was a cute and curvy little brunette wearing the standard Schubas uniform: black biker shorts under a green waist-apron and a well-fitted crewneck shirt with the bar insignia over the left breast pocket. Trev was extremely sweet as well as considerate and cute—great qualities for a pas de deux partner to have—and it became very clear early on that we wouldn’t be those company members who dated and later had an awkward time dancing together after they broke up. Our connection was fueled by the performance art we made together but there’d never been any flirtation or pining between us. Trev wasn’t into ballet bodies. Our server was just his type and had laughed at one of his bad jokes, so I knew that he was happy with the start of the evening. 

“What if we ordered more food?” Trev asked. “Do you think she’d be mad?”

“She’s our _server_ ,” Kevin stressed. “I think she’d be mad if we don’t leave a decent tip.”

My dance partner let out an exasperated sigh. “Can I leave my phone number? Would she be mad about that?”

I chuckled as I took a swig of my beer. My pint glass was still half full since I’d stepped away briefly to talk to Archie. 

“Hey,” a new voice spoke beside me.

When I looked up, Jughead was standing next to me at the edge of the table. “Hi,” I answered with a smile.

“Can I talk to you?” Jughead looked far from happy. His expression bordered on downright upset. “Reggie says ‘hi’, by the way.” 

I turned to look in Reggie’s direction to wave and he raised his glass to me from across the room.

“Jughead, you remember Kevin from Veronica’s party, right?” I gesturing to my friends as I spoke, “And this is Trev Brown. Trev, Jughead Jones. Jug is…Jug and I go way back. We grew up together.” 

“Hi, Jughead,” Kevin greeted and simultaneously pinched me under the table. His green eyes lit up at the prospect of witnessing a key moment. 

“Kevin.” Jughead barely nodded at Kevin and shook the hand that Trev extended very curtly. “Nice to meet you, Trev.” 

Jughead didn’t return either of their smiles before he spoke directly to me again and repeated himself, “Can I talk to you? Outside? _Now?_ ”

“Okay,” I agreed monotonously with an eyebrow half raised, wondering why he was being so insistent and rude. I addressed my friends, “I’ll be back, you guys.”

I grabbed my coat off the back of my chair to shield me from the early November evening and slid my phone and card case into one of the pockets—I’d need my ID to get back into the bar after. I turned back to my friends and mouthed a ‘sorry’ as Jughead and I walked toward the door. Trev merely shrugged but Kevin gave me goofy grin and added a wink for good measure. 

I followed Jughead outside and we didn’t stop until we were standing in the doorway of the storefront across from the bar. It was a hair salon that, according to the hours listed in the window, closed at five every afternoon. The salon had bay windows, which made for a wide doorway that was lit by a solitary fluorescent motion-detecting light.

Jughead’s hair looked more chocolate brown than jet black under the bright light, and his skin looked flushed out. The blue of his eyes actually looked deeper, accented by the long, curly eyelashes he’d had even as a boy.

“So what’s so important that we have to talk out here?” I wondered as I slipped into my light pea coat. Given our location in Lakeview, there was always a slight breeze coming in from the shore of Lake Michigan.

A moment passed before he said anything. I studied his face. It looked like he was torn between putting his hand through a window and crawling into fetal position. He took a deep breath. “Betty, this has to stop.”

Once my coat was on, I untucked my tied hair from inside the collar of the jacket. “ _This_?”

“This…you and Archie…your thing. Whatever it is you’re doing,” Jughead clarified, “it has to stop. I mean it.”

I shoved my hands into my pockets. And then I froze.

_Holy shit._

It was about to happen. The moment I’d been waiting for. The one Archie had told me was just on the horizon. It had to be. Jughead was about to drop his bomb.

Suddenly I was flustered. I felt a cold sweat coming on. I counted down from five to one before I responded. When I responded, I used just enough force to see how hard I would have to push to break through the walls of the fortress. “Why do you think you have the right to tell me that? Why would I stop just because you tell me to?”

“Because…”

_Because you like me? Because you want me to have a thing with you instead?_

“You think Archie is such a nice guy.” Jughead changed the format of his approach. “The two of you are getting close. You think that you’re headed toward a relationship with him. Am I right?”

So that was how he wanted to make his reveal? He wanted me to shake it out of him. He wanted me to admit it first. Forget board games or card games—he wanted to play hardball.

“Archie makes me feel special,” I answered.

That much was true. There were moments of weakness when I wanted there to be something real between Archie and me, like the night that I’d been drunk and tried to sleep with him. But even stone cold sober, there were moments that I wondered why I hadn’t already fallen for him. He always knew the right thing to say and took good care of me. He made me feel special. What girl didn’t want someone in her life that made her feel special?

Sometimes I wondered if Archie felt the same way, if he thought there could be something between us, even though that wasn’t our intention from the start. We’d always acknowledged that being attracted to each other was critical to selling our story. But perhaps in trying to spark a fire and finding out I had real feelings for Jughead, I’d grown attached to Archie, too. I could see exactly why Veronica and all the other bachelorettes in the city liked him from the get go, no matter what his reputation was, because he was totally crush-worthy, especially once you got to know him. 

“Betty, open your eyes. You’re on borrowed time. You’re not going to sail off into the sunset with Archie,” Jughead continued. “You’re being reckless and you’re going to fall head first off a cliff with the way you’re treating this like a…a project. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Give me a real reason,” I dared.

My heart pounded in my chest. That was how I knew that anything I felt for Archie didn’t even register on the same Richter scale as what I wanted to happen with Jughead. I’d fought for him without any proper assurance that the payoff would be what I wanted. He put my stomach into knots. He was still the one I wanted. 

“I was supposed to meet Veronica yesterday, for that video thing she wanted me to do. So I thought I’d do my due diligence and do my own research on her before I went into it. Naturally, her social media came up,” Jughead spoke gently, as if each new word might be a slap to my face. “Betty…someone tagged photos of her and Archie at his frat’s Halloween party. It looked like she was there _with_ him. That was why I was talking to Reggie, to see if he knew anything about them seeing each other.” 

I hadn’t talked to Archie much over the course week. I hadn’t really thought about it, giving him some time off from our con while I had some time off from work, because we’d been very good about relaying the necessary details to each other in order to keep our story straight. Anything important that could derail us, we told each other so we could corroborate our white lies. I’d encouraged him to invite Veronica to his frat’s Halloween party but I assumed that he hadn’t or that she got a better offer because I didn’t hear about it from either of them. But I’d spoken to both of them since then—I’d _just_ spoken to Archie moments before Jughead asked me to step outside. I knew Archie was preoccupied with pre-show jitters but a head’s up would have been nice.

Jughead spoke again, “So I asked Archie about it.”

“Okay,” I replied, hoping that Archie had come up with something good, _anything_ that I could spin and pretend like I’d known all along. “What did he say?”

“He said he’s confused. He likes you a lot,” Jughead sighed into his next sentence, “but he thinks he really likes Veronica, too.”

Seriously? _That_ was what he had said?

I wasn’t mad that Archie liked Veronica, especially when I’d encouraged both of them. It seemed, though, that Archie had cut me out from interfering once I set him up with Veronica’s number. That was fine, because I didn’t think myself to be much of a matchmaker anyway. And just because Archie and I were partners in working on my train wreck of a love life, it didn’t mean I could have anything to do with his. But I was annoyed with what he’d told Jughead. It made him seem truer to his fuckboy persona and Jughead probably thought I was the village idiot.

“It’s fine,” I began, ready to do damage control. “I—”

“Are you joking? It is not fine,” Jughead sneered, interrupting me. “He can’t just use you, treat you like a placeholder, then get distracted and split once he sees a shiny new object. He’s an asshole. And with _your_ friend? Behind your back? That is not okay on either of their parts.”

Jughead’s voice had risen by a decibel. I couldn’t have guessed he would be so angry over _me._ My heart swelled.

“No, you’re right, it’s not,” I agreed with a timid voice. I wasn’t really mad at Archie and Veronica as much as I was disappointed. I was sure that they didn’t expect Jughead to find them looking cozy together on social media. And even if I didn’t know Archie well enough (which I was pretty sure I did), I knew Veronica. I knew she would never betray me—the restraint she’d kept up while she thought I was dating Archie was proof of that. But keeping me out of loop once I gave them the go ahead had just blindsided me.

“This is my fault,” Jughead said slowly, shutting his eyes tightly and sighing deeply. “I shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m so sorry, Betty,” he apologized and shook his head once he opened his eyes and sighed again, adjusting the hat on his head. “I just thought…I thought you would have a good time with Archie. Enough for you to stop crushing on me. I didn’t think you would fall for him and…”

No.

_No._

Jughead finished his train of thought but I didn’t know what he said. I didn’t even hear his voice. I tuned out. I was stuck on the sentence before. _Please tell me he did not just say ‘enough for you to stop crushing on me’._

“Wait, Jug,” I spoke, hoping he didn’t hear the shake in my voice. “Crushing on you? What?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You don’t think I knew that you liked me? Betty, come on.”

Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

_He knew? He knew!_

Had he known all along? Did Archie know that he knew? My mind went into overdrive. There was no time for denial. There was no way I could hold steady to the con. I meant to break through the gates of the fortress around Jughead’s heart but instead I’d been dragged blindfolded to the dungeon.

“Are you saying that you told one of your oldest friends to hook up with me…knowing that I liked you?” Inside the pockets of my coat, my thumbs traced over the pads of my fingers as I spoke. 

“Um…sort of.” Jughead winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth and amended, “Not really. I told him that you were cute, and he was newly single, so I thought maybe…I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.”

Jughead thought I was cute? Wait, _so not the point_. He’d practically auctioned me off—which he had absolutely no authority to do—and he hadn’t even waited for the highest bidder.

“So basically you told Archie that I should be his rebound girl.” I lost my head. “It was okay that I was fooling around with him, so long as I started to like someone else? _Someone other than you?_ ”

Jughead looked sufficiently uncomfortable at the thought that I’d slept with someone because of his selfishness. Good. He didn’t have to know that I’d never actually done the dirty with Archie. Archie had always been adamant that Jughead not get that idea but after what he’d just revealed to me, I thought it served him right.

“Betty,” he began, “when you put it that way, it—”

“That’s why you tried to warn me about Archie before, once we started getting close, isn’t it? You didn’t want to be responsible for me being just another one of his girls when it was _you_ who suggested it to him in the first place.” I cut him off and narrowed my eyes at him. “Admit it, Jughead. That’s what you did.”

He didn’t. He looked away from me, down to his feet.

“Archie isn’t the only one that’s an asshole,” I said to Jughead just as my voice cracked. “ _You’re_ an asshole.”

It felt good to insult him to his face after finding out just what he thought about the fact that I liked him. I’d really started to believe that he might have a thing for me, too. At the very least I thought he genuinely cared about my well-being. But none of it was true. And once again my crystal vision was so wrong. My fate with him wasn’t like those girls like Sabrina. It was _worse_ —it was nonexistent—and he had made sure of it. As quickly as he’d made my heart swell, he yanked it out of my chest, threw it on the ground, and stomped all over it with his combat boots. 

With a shaky breath, I pushed off the sidewalk and began walking. I rounded the corner at the end of the street. I walked at a brisk pace and was almost at the first major intersection I would have to cross when Jughead’s voice rang out again. 

“Where are you going?” Jughead demanded as he caught up to me.

“Home,” was my simple answer. “The L is just a few blocks away.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket with one hand and pressed the button for the pedestrian crossing with the other. The closest L station, Southport, was on the brown line, not the one that would get me home. I’d have to get off after a few stops and catch the blue line in Irving Park. But the inconvenience of having to walk a few extra blocks was a better alternative than sticking around after what Jughead had just told me. The card case I’d thankfully thought to stuff in my pocket held my Ventra card along with my ID. And with it being a Thursday evening, I knew Chic would be home to let me in the apartment even if I didn’t have my keys. I typed a quick text to Kevin as I waited for the signal to cross the street. My friends didn’t have to leave the bar just because my mood had soured. I apologized for leaving abruptly and asked Kevin to give my bag to Trev to hold until the next day.

“Please don’t leave. Come back inside,” Jughead begged just as the pedestrian light changed from the orange hand to the white silhouette of a man. I took off in a flash. Jughead groaned but he kept up and followed me closely. “Your brother is going to kill me.”

Oh, I was counting on it. I was absolutely livid. There would be no complaints on my part if Chic wanted to use his overprotective older brother card for justice against his beanie-wearing cad of a best friend. In fact, I would _gladly_ help him. Chic could pour the gasoline and I would light the match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it looks like Jughead dropped his bomb, just not the one Betty was hoping for. Please direct all hate mail to the comments section below and my [tumblr ask box](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/ask). The [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/167766522835/the-con-extended-chapter-notes) are over there, too.
> 
> Liked it, hated it, just barely tolerated it? Whatever your reaction was, I'd love to know what you think. I'm so grateful for your feedback! Thank you!
> 
> The PSA still stands: I solemnly swear that Archie’s end goal is the same as mine, a Bughead endgame.
> 
> Next chapter: Chic checks in with his sister. More questions are raised. More revelations are made. I surprise you all over again.


	10. The Table

“Open the door, Betty,” my brother’s voice came muffled through the door.

“Go _away_ , Chic,” I yelled back in frustration.

“Well it’s nice of you to actually answer this time. Good to know you’re still alive,” he went on loudly. “I’m gonna get in there. If you’re not decent, consider this as your warning. Don’t be naked!”

Without responding, I rolled onto my side and pulled the duvet up to my forehead. It was the day after Archie’s gig and I had spent almost all of my Friday in bed. I needed time to myself to simmer and stew. Most of the day had been quiet because I’d been alone in the apartment since Chic went to work. But the evening settled in, and the last ten minutes had involved Chic knocking on my bedroom door and requesting that I let him in. I could only imagine that the news had broken and he knew how much of a jerk his best friend was. And also how stupid his little sister was.

Jughead had followed me all the way to the train station the night before when I told him I was leaving. I didn’t respond when he said he would give me a ride home or when he offered to leave the bar instead, so that I wouldn’t. As if in the heat of the moment those were options that appealed to me. I gave him the silent treatment. He relented only once I went through the turnstiles that led to the platform. I knew that he had a Ventra card, too—he had the subsidized student card with unlimited fare—but I was glad that he got the message and bowed out before things turned really ugly and we both said things that we’d later regret.

I hadn’t taken pity on him when he’d stayed put and I’d walked away from him. I could tell he felt awful about the shitty thing he’d done, but I was stuck on how it seemed like he didn’t even realize what a shitty thing it was until he actually said it out loud. If Chic had found out what happened, then Jughead would have to have been the one that told him. I was no seven-year-old girl anymore—as angry as I was—I certainly didn’t _tattle_ on Jughead. When I got home the night before, I’d given Chic a flimsy excuse about why I didn’t have my keys before I holed up in my room. I left Jughead out of it. If it took Chic a whole 24 hours to try to check in on me, then it must have taken Jughead a while before he spilled the details of our confrontation to my brother.

The banging on the door had stopped when I yelled for Chic to go away. I thought that the sentence I called out for proof of life was enough for him to leave me be. But I knew I was wrong as soon as I felt the added weight to my bed.

“Leave me alone.”

“Betty—”

“Leave. Me. Alone.” I enunciated each word and did so loudly.

Chic’s response was to pull the duvet away from my face. He sat on the edge of the bed.

Automatically, I glowered at him. “How did you even get in here? I locked that door.”

My brother gave me a cheeky grin and held up a bobby pin between his thumb and index finger. “I took this from the bathroom counter.”

“Who do you think you are? Frank Hardy?” I sighed. “You’re not supposed to use my own tools against me.”

True to the silver screen, with the right skill and enough luck, a bobby pin was a sufficient lock pick for doors with locks as cheap as ours. Having cheap-ass locks on our bedroom doors had never been an issue before, because before there were no scenarios in which one of us would have to break into the other’s room. Well, that was before Jughead moved to Chicago. My life as a bunhead, with the constant need for having hair in perfect place, had just worked against me in real life. It was a good thing my dance bag was in the room with me. There was plenty in there that could’ve substituted as a weapon. Chic could have used the toe boxes of my pointe shoes to hammer down the door.

“Betty, that is insulting. If I’m anyone from a children’s mystery series for knowing how to pick a lock, at least call me Nancy Drew. We all know she was a much better amateur sleuth than either of those Hardy Boys.” Chic ignored my rude gawk and dropped my handbag from the night before in front of me. “Here. Archie brought this over for you.”

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow. I’d sent Kevin a text to give my bag to Trev, and he’d promised that he would. I was so done asking Archie for favors. “Archie gave you this?”

“Yeah, he dropped by briefly,” Chic confirmed with a nod. 

Archie. I didn’t even know what to think about him. I wasn’t sure if I should have felt bad for ditching his gig before he had a chance to play or if he was guilty of something I should have known and deserved to be in the doghouse. It didn’t help that I had about a thousand texts and a hundred missed calls from him, all of which I refused to return. I’d truly believed he was my friend whose intention was to help me get closer to my goal. I’d believed him every time he talked me down from the ledge. I’d believed him when he said that Jughead was jealous and that Jughead wanted me to pick him. Jughead was unaware that I’d been working with Archie and even thought that I was seriously into his redheaded friend. But if it were true that Jughead had approached Archie to approach me months ago, then I wouldn’t have even been working with Archie if not for him.

If Jughead was the reason Archie had even given me the time of day, did that mean Archie had been lying to me all along? Was all the time I spent with him actually to keep me out of Jughead’s way? Archie hadn’t even bothered to tell me that he and Veronica went to his frat’s Halloween party together. He hadn’t talked to me about Veronica at all, not since I gave him her phone number. I couldn’t fathom why he would suddenly leave me out of loop like that. 

If Jughead was the reason we’d gotten so close, then was Archie being honest when he told Jughead that he really liked me, even though he really liked Veronica, too? Archie really was a nice guy. But was he really just _that_ guy, the one who liked all the girls he had more than a five-minute conversation with? Had I put all my faith and trust in _that_ guy? Had I disregarded all the signals? Was that why he’d almost let the drunken version of myself sleep with him? I’d thought that Archie’s loyalty to me was admirable and sweet. But maybe it was me who had been too loyal to him, thinking that he was any different than advertised because he paid attention to me and acted every bit of the boy next door that I hadn’t expected.

I couldn’t believe what a mess I was because of Jughead _and_ Archie. Staying in bed for the better part of the last day—leaving my room only to eat and use the restroom (and timed perfectly so I wouldn’t run into my brother during the hours he might be home)—didn’t mean that I’d gotten the chance to go to bed. Sleep never came. I’d only tossed and turned. My mind spun faster than a triple pirouette and I didn’t have time to spot. No good had come of the con. I was just hurt and confused.

When I went to dump my purse on the ground, Chic spoke again. “Jug told me what happened, you know.”

His words were met with silence from me, my suspicion about Chic’s source of information confirmed.

“I told him I was going to kick his ass, best friend charms be damned.”

The mention of the theoretical charm bracelets that Chic and Jughead kept locked away in equally theoretical fireproof boxes as symbols of their friendship was my brother’s attempt to bring humor to a sad situation. Cooper and Jones, they were Riverdale’s very own dynamic duo, after all. They were proud of that absurdity. I finally had to crack a smile. “Really?”

“Mmmhmm,” my brother returned with a smirk. “And I reamed him out. You and I both know that a verbal assault with choice words will always affect Jug more than a black eye ever will.” 

I agreed with Chic on that point. I knew he was right. Jughead was a writer and words always cut deeper at him than physical violence ever could. I remembered seeing him over a long weekend during the time his dad was in lock up for a DUI—the time when he’d joined the Southside Serpents—how he’d worn the marks of initiation plainly until they faded, like he was numb to them and they didn’t faze him. I also remembered that it was only FP who got through to Jughead with his words, who made sure he didn’t fall further down the rabbit hole and got out of that life. 

“So you _didn’t_ kick his ass then,” I directed at my brother. It was half-question and half-statement. 

True, words hurt Jughead more than a good ass-kicking could. But given the emotional roller coaster that I couldn’t get off of because of him, the rage inside of me gave me violent thoughts, and I wanted someone to knock some sense into him in the literal sense. 

“Well…I figured you might want to do that yourself. You’re in peak performance condition, which means you are in much more capable condition than I,” Chic told me with a wink. “Jughead totally deserves to get his ass kicked by _you_ , Betty.”

I let out a laugh for the first time since I’d walked away from the table I’d been sitting at with Trev and Kevin the night before. “Thanks, Chic. You’re a good brother.”

“But let him live, okay?” Chic sighed. “He didn’t mean to hurt you. I know what he did was really shitty. And I told him that in several different ways. But…Jug didn’t mean to be such a Grade A asshole.”

“Yeah, he just is one,” I scoffed as the traces of my smile left my face.

“You need to hear his side of the story,” was Chic’s rebuttal.

“ _Unbelievable_ ,” I seethed. “You would choose him over me, wouldn’t you?” 

How nice for Jughead. He’d told Chic all about what happened and Chic was worried about _his_ feelings even after telling me to kick his ass? I was Chic’s only sister but he would take bromance over blood.

“I wouldn’t choose any of my friends over you, Betty. Not even my best friend,” he argued. “Believe me when I say that Jughead knows that all too well.” 

Okay, that was pretty cryptic. That would need further explanation at some point.

Chic stood up and continued, “You can’t hide from him in your room forever. Not in Riverdale and certainly not now when he lives downstairs.” 

Had Chic just insinuated that he’d known all along, for years, even back in Riverdale, that I liked Jughead? Since it had been brought up outside the bar, I’d told myself over and over again that Jughead only figured it out in July, and when he got to Chicago, he immediately put Archie on my trail. But if Chic knew I’d been ‘hiding forever’, did that mean Jughead had known since then, too? Oh, God. Had my brother and his best friend had awkward conversations about my crush over the years?

With a groan, I threw my head back against the pillow and brought the blanket back up to my neck. That was what sucked the most about finding out Jughead already knew I liked him. I had that hanging over my head. I still had to face him. He was still my neighbor and still my brother’s best friend.

Maybe the worst part of all was that I still liked him. I _wanted_ to be completely over him. For treating me like a consolation prize for one of his friends, I wanted to hate him. But I didn’t. Seven years of crushing on the same guy wasn’t something I could just forget or turn off. Even through puppy love and dating other guys in high school and into apprenticeship, in the back of my mind, he was my ultimate crush. All the work I’d put in since September had only augmented the way I felt about him. All the work I’d put in meant that not only could I not just get over my crush, but I knew that it was so much more than a crush.

“Why’d you have to end up liking my best friend?” Chic asked after another lapse of silence. “You’ve known him since he was chasing you down the block with worms in his fists.”

Glaring at my brother, I withdrew an arm from under the covers. He had to duck when a roll of athletic tape—the first hard object I could grab off the top of the nightstand—went hurtling toward his head. It hit the wall and bounced to the ground with a thud.

I pointed at the open door. “Get out.”

 

\-----

 

It wasn’t until after midnight that I left my room again. Because of my stubbornness, I had nearly gone through the supply of Luna bars that I kept in the side pocket of my dance bag. They were only for emergencies—and the aftermath of Archie’s gig was definitely an emergency. When I’d been home alone all day there’d been no problem dashing to the kitchen to take food back to bed, but with the work week complete, there was no telling if I’d be accosted by Chic by setting foot out into the apartment once night fell. I figured that after midnight was the best time to get out of my room if I wanted to avoid Chic. It was late Friday night (and technically early Saturday morning) so I thought he would be out with Tomoko, or if he was home, would have already retreated to his own room.

Much to my dismay, as soon as I was in the hallway outside my bedroom, I could see the kitchen light on and hear ESPN on the TV in the living room. So Chic hadn’t gone out and he was still in the main area of our shared apartment. After a short trip to the bathroom, I sighed, standing at the end of the hall contemplating my next move. Did I want to avoid any further conversation with my brother about a certain beanie-wearing jerk so badly that I was willing to live off Luna bars until all the lights were off and there was only silence left in the living room?

No. White chocolate macadamia nut was a great flavor, but my stomach begged for the kind of food that didn’t have an expiration date set well into the future. My body was used to a high protein, high calorie diet—it was ideal for a life in dance. I’d already missed my session with Dr. Donahue and wasted my day in bed. I hadn’t even stretched all day. I couldn’t deny myself just because I didn’t want to hear what my brother had to say about a stupid guy.

Before I could change my mind, I darted straight to the kitchen with a one-track mind, tunnel vision intact and blinders on. I didn’t allow myself to even glance toward the living room for fear of catching Chic’s gaze. Unlike a lot of the century-old buildings closer to downtown, our apartment’s floor plan was open concept. The table, pushed up against the wall like a peninsula, was the only thing that separated the kitchen and the living room. Surely Chic saw me as soon as I was out from the hallway. But he didn’t say anything to me, with my back turned, as I opened the refrigerator door. 

My eyes were immediately drawn to a stack of hummus containers on the second shelf. If my brother had gotten hummus, then there had to be pita chips somewhere in the kitchen as well. I picked up the first container from the stack—sun-dried tomato—and grabbed the carton of coconut water from the door rack. The pita chips weren’t on top of the refrigerator and I didn’t see them on the counter next to the stove. We didn’t have a pantry, and the cupboards housed only plates and non-perishables, so I figured they must be buried in the basket of fruit on the table.

Shrugging to myself, I shut the refrigerator with my hip as I turned to walk to the table and face the living room. My reflexes failed me and the hummus fell to the ground as I froze in my tracks and my eyes widened. Sitting on the couch and staring back at me, there he was. Jughead.

I blinked once as the panic alarm went off in my head. _Shit._ I slid the coconut water onto the table and crouched to the floor to retrieve the hummus. The fallen container was the least of my problems. With the lid put on properly, the dip was still totally sealed off. There was nothing to wipe up off the floor. Unfortunately, I couldn’t wipe Jughead away and out of the living room either.

When I was back to my feet, he’d already crossed the space from his spot on the couch to the other side of the table, across from me. His hands fidgeted awkwardly at his hanging suspenders before he drummed his fingers against the denim of his black jeans and then pulled at the hem of his maroon cable knit sweater. Although it was late, Jughead wasn’t in comfortable loungewear. He must have gotten home from work and immediately made his way upstairs to stake me out. It was a stark contrast to my own yoga pants and an old Joffrey Academy t-shirt with the names of all the students who’d been in my graduating class on the back. Great. I was pretty sure my face was splotchy, too. Perfect.

“It’s about time,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I hissed under my breath, not loud enough for him to think I’d acknowledged him. 

I rolled my eyes before I went to poke through the fruit basket. Okay, so he had me cornered. It didn’t mean I had to make it easy on him. No way was I going to let him have it easy. His audacity—or maybe his desperation—to say it was about time that I retreated from my room and showed up to his ambush was appalling. 

“Betty, can we talk?” he begged. “I can’t stand the silent treatment.”

_Well, you can’t stand that I like you either, can you?_

The pita chips were buried under an unripe stalk of bananas. I made a mental note to mix them with the strawberries I’d just seen in the refrigerator for a smoothie the next morning. From the corner of my eye, I could see Jughead pouting. I left the table momentarily to grab a clean glass from the dish rack beside the sink before I was back to the spot across from him.

“ _Betty_ ,” he whined desperately.

Not until after I sat down and poured a glass of coconut water for myself did I meet his gaze.

“You should go, Jug,” I said coldly. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“We can’t just leave this alone, okay? I _refuse_ to just leave this alone,” he responded with some shake in his voice. “I want to apologize and—”

With a scoff, I interrupted, “This is your idea of an apology? Goading me when I clearly don’t want to talk? Leaving the TV tuned to SportsCenter—something you would never watch—so that I’d be unsuspecting when I came out here? If this is you apologizing, you’re off to a terrible start.”

My brother had told me just hours before that he wouldn’t pick his best friend over me. Allowing said best friend to camp out in our living room and force a confrontation was somehow _not_ picking Jughead? When Chic encouraged me to kick Jughead’s ass, I didn’t think he meant so soon. I was starting to think that my brother needed a good ass-kicking, too. A day wasn’t nearly enough time to wallow in my own self-pity. In the thick of it, I wanted at least a million hours to be laid out on my back thinking about what happened and crying over the boy who just wanted me to get over him already. 

I undid the twist tie on the bag of pita chips and fanned out the plastic that had been clamped shut. Jughead sighed and grabbed the chair in front of him as I pulled the top off of the hummus container, the aroma of sun-dried tomatoes hitting the air.

“Okay…what if you don’t have to talk?” Jughead suggested, leaning some of his weight onto the chair as I dipped and took my first bite. “I know you’re pissed—and you have every right to be—but I never got a chance to explain. If I talk, will you at least listen to what I have to say?”

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was my careful chewing as he waited for me to say something. I was so angry with him, and even angrier with myself because I thought he was so damn cute standing there. Maroon was a good color on him. He had a pleading look in his eyes. He looked scared. He’d taken to rubbing at the back of his neck so I knew he was nervous. It meant that I held all the power, as if I was a man-eater and he hadn’t been the one who toyed with my heart.

I gulped down all of the coconut water in my glass and shrugged.

“Okay…okay…” Jughead looked away from me and to the table’s surface. I almost smiled. He’d put all his energy into making sure that I would listen to him and when I insinuated that I would, he didn’t even know what to say. He wouldn’t find any answers written on the tabletop, but he kept his eyes fixed there anyway.

He stumbled with his words, a very rare occurrence for him. “I am…I just…it—it’s not like I didn’t notice you, okay?” Jughead was mid-stammer and I stopped chewing as the last grain of pita chip went down my throat. He looked up at me with long curly eyelashes and sapphire eyes. “Because I did. I _really_ noticed.”

My throat felt dry. I needed another glass of coconut water. But I didn’t dare reach for anything in front of me when Jughead was looking at me with such honest eyes. The way he spoke, I didn’t think he meant that he was disgusted by how much I liked him. Quite the opposite, actually.

“I do…” his sentence was incomplete again. It was Jughead, a writer with his quick tongue and always timely sardonic humor, and all of a sudden he was tripping all over himself. All of a sudden he was the one who had lost confidence in his words around me. “I do care about you, Betty.”

He sucked his lips into his mouth so that they formed a straight line. I frowned. He wouldn’t get sympathy from me just because he’d tucked away his sarcasm and looked at me scared. I couldn’t just fall to pieces because he said two nice things to me, one of which I’d already heard before. In fact, we’d been sitting at the same table the first time he told me he cared. So I gave him attitude instead. “Is that why you told Archie to go after me as a rebound? Because you _care_ about me?”

“That’s so not what I meant to do,” Jughead shook his head and shifted his weight, knees a little bent, so that he was leaning against the chair using his forearms. “When I was getting everything settled this summer, when I was going back and forth between here and Toledo and was staying at Archie’s mom’s place, I asked him if he remembered you. He said that he’d seen you around a couple times, so I told him about…well, I asked for his help. There was a plan. But he didn’t stick to it once he started to really hang out with you because he liked you so much. Then everything worked out between the two of you. That’s not what I thought it was going to be like.”

My already spinning head was just about ready to explode, full to the brim of the information Jughead enlightened me with. Jughead and Archie had a plan _together_? I’d been part of a con and I’d done it because Archie had convinced me to. But Jughead? He hadn’t just run his own con and he hadn’t just been playing a game from the beginning. _He had run the fucking table._ He’d been the one pulling the strings all along.

“What did you _think_ it was going to be like?” I demanded furiously.

 _I’d_ been played. Simple as that. I’d been played.

“You weren’t supposed to end up liking Archie,” Jughead said, his lips drawn into a straight line again. “It’s _me_ you were supposed to like.”

 _What the fuck?_ “What are you talking about? You already knew that I did.”

“I wasn’t sure, Betty.”

“ _What?_ ” I screeched.

He let out a long sigh, looked to the ceiling, and rubbed at the back of his neck again. “I wasn’t sure that you liked me.”

I was ready to tear out my hair. In chunks. “You told me that it was apparent. You told me you got Archie on my trail so I would get over my crush on you.”

“I lied.”

“But what about the plan? With Archie? You just said that—”

“I lied,” Jughead repeated. “The plan was meant for you to end up liking me. I didn’t know for sure that you did until last night when…when you confirmed it for me.”

My jaw threatened to drop to the floor. Oh, I hadn’t just been played. With his honesty, Jughead taught me how I played the fool. And I’d been played _twice._

“Oh my God,” my voice was a harsh whisper.

Chic hadn’t been joking when he told me that I had to hear Jughead’s side of the story, and I hadn’t even heard the whole story. It was all too much all at once. I should have been ecstatic. I also should have been even more upset than I already was before the conversation began. More than anything else though, I was overwhelmed. Jughead had just given me the moment I’d been waiting for. The moment I’d worked so hard to get. He liked me. He wanted me to like him. _Holy shit._

“Look, Betty, I—” he stopped himself. Vulnerable, he ripped his beanie off his head and tossed it down on the table in front of him so he could muss at his hair freely. He was in utter disarray, revealing his cards after the fall.

“The thing is…I’ve known you since I was ten. You’re Chic’s little sister.” Jughead was unraveling in front of me, because of me, for me. “It would have to be different. If we started something…I can’t mess up with you.”

I tilted my head to the side. “How do you mean, different?”

“The girls who’ve shown up along the way, it’s never been anything amazing or worthwhile with them. Even if I wanted it to be—even when I’ve tried to make it more—it’s only fun temporarily,” he explained. “That’s how it was with Sabrina. That’s why that never went anywhere.”

“I am just like her,” I answered with a resigned sigh as I remembered the drunken realization I’d made on the night of the Joffrey season-opening party.

“No,” Jughead disagreed. “That never even got on the level of seriousness that a relationship would have. There was nothing magical about it. That’s exactly why I told her we shouldn’t hang out anymore. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t special.”

“So?”

He finally took a step back from the chair, standing up straight and looking at me again. The little almost-dimples at the corners of his mouth were present as a hint of a hopeful smile glimmered on his lips. “Well, with you, I’d want it to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is really playing whom? Who is in cahoots with whom? This probably didn't have the same punch-you-in-the-gut shock value as the last chapter, but in my opinion, this is an even bigger reveal. I have had to bite my tongue for so long, knowing we would get here. It's been a long time coming and I almost feel relieved that I don't have to hold this big secret close to the vest anymore. As usual, you can direct hate mail to the comments section below and/or my [tumblr ask box](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> I am absolutely floored by the response the last chapter got. I never could have imagined anything like that ever happening. Thank you for all your thoughtful comments. Thank you for your support. Thank you for reading. It means so much to me. No matter what your thoughts, I'd love to hear from you! <3
> 
> The final time I'll make this PSA: I solemnly swear that Archie’s end goal is the same as mine, a Bughead endgame.
> 
> Next chapter: It's Archie's turn to explain what's going on. Plus another conversation with Chic.
> 
> ([Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/168075123575/the-con-extended-chapter-notes))


	11. The Line

My mind absolutely needed a break. Jughead had come clean about his game and laid out the facts for me. At the start, before all the conning began, I’d thought I was pathetic and he was clueless. But I had begun to see my own naivety to the twists and turns of the high-stakes head games we’d decided to engage in. I was running on very little sleep and still stuck on the emotional rollercoaster. I couldn’t stop thinking. There were still details I needed sorted out before I could get any sleep. If I didn’t get the answers I needed, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest.

When Jughead told me that anything that happened with us would have to be different, I didn’t have to ask if it was just part of his apology because he felt bad. He had that same look in his eyes as the morning when we got breakfast and he asked if I was in love with Archie. He meant it. Soon after, I told him he needed to go home, back down to his own apartment, because I needed a timeout. I should have showered and gone to sleep when he departed. I already had a victory. Jughead liked me and he thought that anything between us should be different. Special. 

So didn’t that mean it was the con Archie and I pulled that was the most successful one? 

Restless (and maybe a little reckless), no more than 10 minutes after Jughead left, I left, too. I grabbed the keys to the Subaru and hightailed it outside to warm up the engine and let the heat blast for a few minutes before I took off. My lack of sleep was sure to affect my motor skills, which prompted me to take caution and drive down the Kennedy at a grandma’s pace. It was past one o’clock in the morning. The roads were clear—a sharp contrast to the traffic jammed in my mind.

Headed east on the expressway toward Roscoe Village, I only had to dial Archie on speakerphone once. He picked up on the last ring, just before my call was sent to his voicemail inbox.

“Seriously? _Now_ you decide to call me back?” Archie’s voice was hoarse and muffled, which meant he’d been asleep. But the lack of a ‘hello’ meant he had expected me to relent and call him back eventually.

“Oh, boy, do I ever have a bone to pick with you,” I responded.

“Ugh,” he groaned. “Did you talk to Jughead? How are you guys doing over there?” 

“If by ‘there’ you mean my apartment, I’m not there. I’m on my way to your apartment right now,” I told Archie. “You’ve got _a lot_ of explaining to do, Archibald.”

“What? You’re on your way here?” Archie huffed. “Betty, do you even know—”

“I know,” I cut him off. The blue line ran around the clock but could get pretty sketchy past midnight. Riding the L alone at that hour wasn’t exactly recommended. Without giving Archie a chance to finish, I continued, “I took Chic’s car. I’ll be there in five.” 

As Archie lived in a much more bustling part of the city than me, finding a parking spot was a bit of a problem, and I was in no state of mind to make an attempt at parallel parking. I circled the block a few times before I gave up and gave in to an open spot three blocks away. After spending my day cooped up in my room, I needed a walk and fresh air anyway. 

For the most part, the sidewalks were empty, patrons huddled inside the warmth of the bars and their homes. I made eye contact with a few people who sat on their front porches swinging life away, the distinct aroma of nicotine and weed wafting in the air of early November. They looked at me quizzically but not suspiciously. I couldn’t blame them. I’d rolled up to their neighborhood at a Godforsaken hour, way underdressed to be on the way to the bar, or to have come from the bar. In my tired state, I’d done nothing more than put on a fleecy jacket, but I was otherwise disheveled, still in my yoga pants and old Joffrey Academy t-shirt. 

I rounded the corner to Archie and Reggie’s building and jogged the rest of the way as a classic Chicago gust of wind whipped at me. The wood of the porch steps had that light, hollow sound in the autumn chill. Archie opened the door and led me into the foyer before I had the chance to knock. He slipped a crew neck sweater with his fraternity’s Greek letters over his bedhead and over his shoulders as we sat down on the couch. I took my coat off and he yawned, probably more for effect than necessity. “We really couldn’t have had this conversation later today? _After_ the sun rises?”

“Is Reggie here?” I asked as I settled in. Archie and I were about to have a pretty lengthy discussion, whether either of us were ready for it or not, and the last thing we needed was an interruption from his roommate. Both of us faced forward, heads turned to the side to look at each other.

“Nah. He’s not home yet. He went to the _after_ -afterparty with some of the guys after the game,” Archie responded and reminded me of his weekly Saturday night college football commitments during the fall semester, “which ended a few hours ago, by the way. Seriously, Betty, it’s been a long day.” 

“Oh, no, you are not slithering away from this discussion, Archie Andrews,” I told him with a firm shake of my head. “It’s been a long day—a long _two_ days—for me, too. You owe me a really good explanation.”

“I was there, at your apartment, and at Jughead’s, when I brought your bag by. I wanted to talk to you. I was worried about you. Or did the missed calls and texts not get that message across?” Archie sighed. “I _tried_ to reach out, Betty. You didn’t come out of your room and you didn’t even respond to a single one of my attempts to reach you. I knew you’d surface when you were ready, I just didn’t think that time would be at half past one in the morning.” 

“Yeah, it’s so hard being you,” I scoffed without sympathy for his weak ‘ _I’m tired right now_ ’ defense. “What were you even doing there? Plotting more stuff against me?” 

“No, I’m done doing Jughead any big favors. As far as I’m concerned, he owes me for this mess the two of you have gotten yourselves into.” Archie stretched his legs out in front of him, underneath the coffee table, as far as they could go. “And, Betty, I never plotted _against_ you.” 

As I leaned back against the couch, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Elaborate.”

“Where do I even start?” Archie rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he got to the beginning, “Okay, well, Jug kinda thought that you might like him…and Juggie kinda likes you, too. No, not ‘kinda’. He _really_ likes you.”

If I needed any further proof, there it was. Jughead hadn’t been messing around when he’d cornered me and blown my mind with his confession. 

“So you helped him?” I asked, encouraging Archie to continue.

“He took this whole thing so seriously, Betty. Over the summer, he started talking about you and asked if I would help with a plan once he moved here. He hoped that after a week everything would just fall into place,” Archie explained. “Jug asked me if I would get your number, hang out with you, and get you on that double date with him.”

The logic behind that move still eluded me. “Why?”

“He wanted you to have a terrible time so he could…rescue you…in a sense,” Archie answered, complete with pauses when he searched for the right elaboration. “He wanted to be completely sure that he hadn’t just made it up in his head, that you really liked him. And if you did, he wanted to be worthy of you.”

Undoubtedly, Jughead had his faults. He was too doom and gloom for his own good and the only thing he’d ever been totally and completely devoted to was his writing. He shut people out so that they never got the chance to hurt him, yet was loyal to the death to those he loved, even if they were the same people who had hurt him before. And because of that, his moments of openness were selective—few and far between, and only to a very small inner circle. But that wasn’t to his detriment. It was part of the reason I liked him so much. Because maybe we’d never really been friends, and our connection was always through Chic, but I’d always been _in_ with Jughead. Even when he’d been sending me mixed signals and conning me at my own con, he let me see the part of him that he’d always been. I’d watched Jughead take on the weight of his circumstances since I was a little girl, and he always came out on the other side still as…Jughead. Always as himself. I wanted to be with someone who couldn’t help but be every part of himself, the good and the bad. That was real. That was special. 

“ _Worthy of me_?” I stressed the words. “Well, I guess he’s always been oblivious to his most attractive qualities that make girls like him. For as long as I’ve liked Jughead, I’ve always liked him the way he is.” 

“Okay, well you should tell him that,” Archie suggested. “He doesn’t seem very confident that that’s how _you_ see him.”

“How could he think I’d need rescuing from you?” I asked my co-conspirator. “You’ve always been good to me, Archie.”

As I conversed with Archie, some of the reasons why I liked Jughead resurfaced in the corner of my mind. Archie was a dreamboat and a good kisser. He was a simple ladies man who’d turned out to be genuinely nice. But simple and nice apparently weren’t for me. Because _I_ wasn’t just a nice and simple girl from Riverdale. I was complicated. I was a mess. I was driven by my passion for dance, which could be obsessive, demanding, rewarding, and heartbreaking all at once. The only person in my inner circle, who I was around on a daily basis, up against a similar labor of love was Jughead. And he’d always been that way. Jughead Jones wasn’t simple by any means. 

“I didn’t have to be nice. I wasn’t supposed to be.” Archie smirked. “You were supposed to think I was this hotshot frat boy, a total douche. From that night on the yacht, and after that, Jughead was pissed that the plan had wandered off-course.”

“But your plan did work. We went on that double date,” I spoke, “and I absolutely hated that girl.” 

“Yeah, _my_ plan worked,” Archie boasted. “Not his. If you weren’t going to have a terrible time because of me, then he wanted you to be jealous. You weren’t supposed to go outside and make out with me.”

Jealously _had_ struck me that night and I’d put a lot of effort into trying to hide it. I distinctly remembered how envious I’d been when Jughead and Sabrina looked so comfortable together. Kissing Archie had been partly because of my jealousy, and I’d felt so accomplished when I’d thought that I’d turned the tables and made Jughead jealous. Looking back, I should have been taken down then. I could have avoided the cons of pulling a con, so to speak. 

Still, I shook my head, confused at the tune Archie was singing. “But he said…and you said…you guys were in on it together from the start.”

“We were. But everything changed that first night, when we were left in the living room and it was time to convince you to go out with me. Because I could tell that you had it as bad for him as he did for you. I got a good vibe from you. You seemed like the kind of girl I wished I were writing songs about. Plus, I told you to your face you were hot, remember? And I thought to myself that Jughead was so lucky because the girl who’s totally the _right_ girl for him secretly likes him back.” Archie paused his long-winded speech to flash me his trademark grin. “So I didn’t think it was fair that he should be the one who got to dictate all the terms. I used Jug’s plan to come up with my own plan. Getting you on the double date by mentioning that stuff about falling for someone who’s into someone else and jealousy was part of the plan, but flipping the script and telling you about a con, that was mine. You have no idea how hard it was for me to come up with that on the spot and keep it all a secret since then. I’ve wanted to tell you so many times.”

Both of us were silent for a prolonged moment as I absorbed his words. Wow. Sneaky, sneaky Archie. I couldn’t help but smile back at him with both bewilderment and amusement. He’d played with Jughead. He’d played with me, but not against me. The reality was ridiculous: Archie had double-crossed us, and he’d done it for us. We were the idiots who just couldn’t get it right.

“So you really were helping me then,” I thought out loud.

“What? Well, _yeah_ , Betty,” Archie said, vexed. “Even you knew _that_ part.”

“I know.” I nodded, thinking back to how much he’d done for me. “It’s just…Jughead got in my ear earlier. Since he doesn’t know about us working together, he thought the reason his plan failed was because things worked between us, because you like me. I get where he’s coming from…you’ve done so much for me. And I’m not saying that you do or that you have to, but the obvious question seems to be _why_ would you do all that for me if you don’t like me? This whole thing has gotten so confusing, Arch. Even I don’t know why nothing has ever really happened between us, why we never slipped. We get along so well and I think you’re cute and I’m really fond of you.” 

Archie scooted closer to me on the couch and threw a friendly arm over my shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, I really did enjoy making out with you all those times. And you’re…everything I’ve seen of you is beautiful.”

He was talking about when I’d flashed him while I was drunk, I just knew it.

“Of course I like you, Betty. But you’re…you are so perfect. Even when you’re drunk and crying.” Archie clarified, “I’ve never been good enough for you. I’ll never be good enough for you. So yeah, I do like you…for Jughead though.”

My breathing stopped with the first part of his last sentence, then started again when he finished it off. I wasn’t quite sure if I was relieved or disappointed. Maybe a tiny bit of both? At least I wasn’t hurt. It had been nice having Archie compliment me, kiss me, and care about me. It was only that though; it was _nice_. The feeling I got from Archie didn’t even warrant a better synonym. He was easy to like, easy to be charmed by. I’d always liked the thought of him. But I’d never yearned for him. 

“If you’re not, do you think Jughead is?” I asked, referring back to Archie’s idea of being ‘good enough’. 

Archie shrugged. “Does it really matter? It’s always been him for you.” 

He was so right on all accounts. What I wanted, or _who_ I wanted, wasn’t someone who thought I was so ‘perfect’ that they’d never be good enough for me. Because perfect was something I still struggled with every day, in my professional life and my private life—simultaneously chasing after it and rejecting it took its toll sometimes. Pulling a con had burned me in the end, but placing all my energy into the mission, into the end goal, had taken off the edge of neurotic self-analysis. And what was it Archie had said about Jughead, the target of the con? He hadn’t thought I was perfect or that he wasn’t good enough. He wanted to prove himself worthy of me, on a level playing field. We’d both deceived each other and done wrong, but Jughead totally got me. 

With a scoffed laugh, I uncrossed my arms from over my chest and launched them around Archie so that I had him enveloped in a hug. It was something he’d done for me so many times, when I’d let myself get down. But with everything said and done, with my mind racing, and my lack of sleep, I didn’t need the comfort anymore. Archie’s work was done. He couldn’t hold my hand or help me get ahead anymore. It wasn’t about getting ahead in the game anymore. If I wanted my shot with Jughead, then I had to do it on my own, without playing.

“Hey,” I began, looking at the Greek letters on his sweater when the hug ended, remembering the confrontation with Jughead at the bar, “why didn’t you and Veronica tell me about the frat party on Halloween?”

Archie blinked at me a few times and blew out a breath. “How did I know you were going to grill _me_ about this and not Veronica?”

“Jughead told me about it, you know,” I informed him. “He caught me off guard because you hadn’t told me about it. That was his point of reverse psychology. It all unraveled from there and he got me to admit that I liked him.”

“All the gaming we did and _that’s_ where he got you? Oh, Betty. You two are so right for each other.” Archie shook his head with a laugh. “So right it’s disgusting.” 

“Why wouldn’t you tell me about the party? I hooked you guys up, didn’t I? It never would’ve been a big deal to me that you guys decided to go out after all—before we were done with our con—but it became a big deal when it was the reason for Jughead to dig.” I ignored Archie’s last sentence and pressed the issue. “What gives, Arch?”

Archie grumbled, “I just…I just wanted to hang out with Veronica. She wanted to hang out and also give me the third degree about our plan. And then she insulted my side of the plan, said it lacked imagination and some French term. She said it was too lazy something or other.”

“ _Laissez-faire_?” 

“Yeah. She said it was too much of that.” Archie nodded and continued, “She told me if we kept up what we were doing, then the three of us—you, me, and Jug—were just going to keep doing this dance until something really did happen and someone did get hurt. She said I needed to be more proactive, to be a catalyst.” 

“Veronica always has been a go-getter,” I hummed. 

“So she came to the party and people took pictures of us,” Archie went on, “and she got tagged right away because she’s practically a celebrity. When I got the first push notification that I’d been tagged, I asked her if she thought we should have a quick FaceTime chat with you. That was when she said I should be proactive, to stop babysitting the situation and let things come to a head so we could all move on and end up where we’re supposed to be.” 

I scowled and forced myself not to ask sarcastically how he’d gotten into college when it seemed he didn’t know what any words meant. “That’s not exactly _proactive_ , Archie. That could have been destructive. What if Jughead had gone Southside Serpent on you?” 

“I know. And I knew how Jughead was going to react, that he was gonna get pissed and get in my face,” Archie said. “And then I thought…well, I saw Veronica’s point. Betty, for me this whole thing started because of Jughead. I changed my plan and went rogue to help you, then it became about you and Jughead. That was always the most important part—that it was about you guys. I thought it was better to go out with a big bang rather than let everything explode down the line if something happened that we couldn’t come back from, something that would ruin the chance for you and Jug.” 

As I considered his words carefully, Archie continued, “So Ronnie and I both kept our mouths shut. I’m really sorry the blowback fell on you, especially when I wanted you to have the upper hand all along. You know how sorry I am, right? But I’m not sorry that everything’s out in the open now. Now you and Juggie can get to working your shit out.” 

In my state of delirium, I couldn’t help but giggle at Archie and at myself. “Wow.” 

“What?” 

“You had a brilliant plan. You were like a puppet master, double-crossing both the people who had something at stake,” I told Archie, “and you basically blew it all up for a girl.” 

“Hey!” Archie exclaimed. “I blew up the first plan when I hung out with you.” 

“Oh,” I teased, “so twice then.” 

I thought that I’d been played twice, so knowing Archie blew up his own plan twice made me feel better. 

Archie groaned immediately and hung his head. “I’m no puppet master and the line between a brilliant plan and a stupid one is thin. _Really_ thin.” 

“So you really like Veronica, huh?” I nudged him in the shoulder as the mood lightened.

A dreamy longing broke out over Archie’s entire face as he rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his chin in his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.” 

I didn’t know how their story would turn out but, God, I knew Veronica was lucky. And I hoped they could have it all, everything they wanted, with each other. Archie liked me—for his friend—and he’d treated me so well. I could only imagine how he treated someone he liked for himself, someone he could potentially fall in love with. He would worship the ground she walked on.

“Then I hope you’ll be as good to her as you were to me. Better, even. No frat douche business,” I told him with a smile. “No one deserves to be happy more than the two of you.”

 

\-----

 

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out._

Those were the words I had to remind myself as I thought about the next time I would face Jughead alone again. Just thinking about it made the pads of my fingers itch to press up against my thumbs. There would be no more charades. There would be no more second-guessing. Honesty was all that remained.

Ideally, I would have stayed at Archie’s after our conversation and gotten some shuteye. I probably would have slept until noon. There was only the weekend left for rest before rehearsals for _The Nutcracker_ began, after lunch on Monday. I didn’t have anywhere else to be imminently. But since I’d taken Chic’s car, and since Veronica and Archie were on their way to becoming an item, it was only appropriate that I went home. Chic was always an early riser, even on the weekends—he said it threw off his ability to wake up on time on Monday morning if he indulged in too much rest on his days off. I didn’t know what my brother had planned for his Saturday, but I definitely didn’t need to hit up the Dunkin Donuts 24-hour drive-thru after leaving Archie’s. I was running on the fumes of the wealthy scope of new information that I had, and anyway, I needed to sleep it off.

When I got home, I showered. The scorching water was relief to my tired muscles. I hadn’t been very physically active in the last two days but I’d pulled more than an all-nighter and felt sore all over. But instead of brushing my teeth and heading to bed once I smelled like soap and shampoo, I made my way back out to the kitchen. I’d forgotten about the food in front of me when Jughead had started talking and I hadn’t even thought about it at Archie’s.

So at five o’clock in the morning, I ate slowly. I had to, because I had to remind myself to breathe as I thought about Jughead. Chic strolled into the kitchen just as I was dusting off the crumbs of the last of the pita chips from my fingers. His seaglass eyes that mirrored my own were slits, straining against the light. “Good morning,” he greeted as he opened the cupboard that held the coffee filters.

While I had stayed away from the coffee shop to ensure I’d be able to fall asleep, my brother was about to make our kitchen smell like one so he could stay awake and alert. So he _did_ have his own early Saturday morning plans, as I’d guessed, whatever they were. Chic poured a mug full of water into the tank of the coffee machine as the first step to make his morning brew.

“Good night,” was my quick response. I threw out my trash and set my cup in the sink.

“You didn’t sleep?”

“I couldn’t.” I shook my head and pointed to his keys on top of the table. “I borrowed your car, actually.”

Chic pulled apart two paper filters that were stuck together. “Where did you go?”

“I had to get answers,” I said without getting specific.

With a filter set in place, my brother scooped two tablespoons of Costa Rican coffee grinds into the coffee maker before glancing over at me again. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

I nodded.

“So you still haven’t talked to Jug?” he asked.

“I talked to him a little bit a few hours ago, which, thanks a lot, by the way, for letting him camp out on the couch like that and letting him corner me,” I responded on the contrary. “That didn’t feel very _blood is thicker than water_.” 

Chic shrugged. “He made his case to me. I thought he deserved a chance.” 

“Again, how is that putting me first?” I frowned. “It’s not okay for you to make decisions like that for me, Chic. I will decide if and when I’m ready to talk to Jughead.” 

I was pretty frustrated with the way the people in my life had made decisions for me lately. I knew they were well-intentioned and they had my best interests in mind. And I knew it was partly my fault, for asking them to be involved (though in my defense, I’d never asked Chic to be involved—his involvement was based on being a Cooper and having a dark-haired enigma for a best friend). I was thankful for their patience with me and so grateful that they cared. But after everything that happened, what I really needed was for everyone to butt out and let me resolve my feelings by myself, and then with Jughead. 

“If I overstepped my bounds, I’m sorry. But I think you did want to hear what he had to say,” Chic quickly apologized before inserting his opinion. “No one forced you to talk to him, Betty. You could have slammed the door in his face. You still can the next time you see him, if that’s what you want. But is that really what you want?” 

“I guess not,” I answered with the shake of my head as I let Chic’s words sink in. “Anyway, the conversation with Jug is…it’s to be continued.”

“You had _half_ a conversation with him?” Chic said with a scowl.

“Why are you pushing this?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Weren’t you the one who said there would be hell to pay if your best friend ever showed interest in your little sister?”

“I…” Chic searched for the right words. “I’m still not crazy about the idea. I’m not against it, but I won’t be singing and dancing in celebration anytime soon. I don’t want you to get hurt, Betty. Especially not by Jughead. And I’m sorry, but I don’t want him to get hurt either. You and him…that has the potential to change all of our lives, you know?”

My brother didn’t have to remind me. We were at a standstill for the moment, with dawn on the horizon, but once I finally had the conversation with Jughead, for real, that was it. We liked each other. Hours earlier he’d said that anything between us would have to be serious. Even so, I didn’t know where Jughead’s head was. So he liked me, and _if_ we started something, he wanted it to be real. But he’d never actually said that dream was the reality he wanted. We had yet to finish our conversation and he had yet to tell me.

Either we could give an ‘us’ a chance or we could forget about it completely. There were no alternative options. It had to be all or nothing. There couldn’t be a middle ground. With our feelings out in the open, Jughead would never be just my older brother’s best friend ever again. 

No, the situation wasn’t just potentially life changing, as Chic suggested. It _would be_ life changing.

“Okay, so why the sudden change of heart?” I asked Chic.

 _Why are you contradicting yourself?_  

Clearly, it was a tough spot for him to be in. I had no doubt that if it came down to it, my brother would choose me, like he’d insisted the day before. But that wasn’t something he’d ever want to do. I didn’t want that for Chic either. I knew very well that a best friend—a real best friend—wasn’t easy to come by.

“I did also say I’d trust him with both our lives,” my brother recalled. “I know I can trust him with this now.”

“ _Now_?” I raised an eyebrow. Chic had been treading lightly in our conversations. He told me that family came first, that he’d always choose his sister and was looking out for me, but he was also noncommittal. He was holding something back—maybe even a few things. He knew something that I didn’t. “What are you not telling me?” 

“I’m not holding out on you to be mean, or because I’m trying to interfere,” Chic replied without answering the question. “I need you to understand that, okay?” 

“No, I don’t understand,” I responded stubbornly. “Last night you said something along the lines of Jughead knowing more than anyone where your loyalty would have to be if it were tested. What did you mean by that?” 

“I can’t say anything without saying everything,” my brother rephrased but remained nonspecific. “And it’s not my place to reveal all.” 

“That just sounds like a cop out, Chic,” I said, “it sounds like you’re trying to cover for your best friend. It sounds like you didn’t actually mean what you said.”

“Look, Betty, it’s up to you to decide if Jughead wronged you so badly that you can’t ever forgive him. So forgive him or don’t forgive him, wait until you’ve cooled off to talk to him or go bang down his door right now – do whatever you want.” Chic pressed the ‘on’ button of the coffee maker and the machine began its process. “You’re my sister and I’ve got your back. I will support you, whatever you decide. But if you’ll allow it…based on what I know…can I give you a simple word of advice, as both your big brother and Jughead’s best friend?” 

It was annoying that Chic was withholding information from me, and for how long? I didn’t know. But given that he had information, and given that he was so confident in what his advice was worth, I trusted he wouldn’t lead me astray. 

So I nodded. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Don’t make your decision until you’ve heard the whole story from him,” Chic said simply, as promised.

I had every intention of doing just that, but not until I’d slept off the last two days and could think clearly. I didn’t trust myself to be engaged in another confrontation and make a life-changing decision in my current state. I’d need to take a good look in the mirror at myself, too, before I placed all the blame squarely on Jughead’s shoulders. It wasn’t lost on me that I’d made mistakes of my own and I had my own confession to make. If honesty was all that remained in the end, then I had to take responsibility for my own deception. So before Jughead’s role in my life was altered, for better or worse, I needed to rest.

“I will,” I assured Chic as I began the walk toward the hallway to get to my room. “But first, sleep.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/168603323130/the-con-extended-chapter-notes))
> 
> Huge thank you to everyone who has continued to support this story! All of your comments are very much appreciated. <3 I am truly thankful for all of the interaction and discourse both here and on [tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/). Last chance to air out your final theories - the next one’s the tell all. As always, I’d love to hear from you.
> 
> Next chapter: honesty night.


	12. The Chase

It took as much time to work up the nerve to talk to Jughead as it did to get ready to do so. After being up for more than 24 hours straight, I ended up sleeping through the rest of the day on Saturday. The sun was making its descent into the horizon when I awoke. From my bedroom window view into the backyard, I saw Jughead sitting at his favorite smoking spot, at the picnic table. It was cold enough that he wore fingerless gloves so he could turn the pages of his book easily. I watched him for only a few moments before I retreated from the window and sank down onto the edge of the bed. I’d gotten some good rest but my mind was still a mess. 

I needed time to relax and organize my thoughts before I talked to Jughead. I pulled myself together, got into workout gear, and gathered my hair up into a high ponytail before packing my gym bag with the clothes and toiletries I would need post-workout. When I checked the window again, Jughead was gone, presumably back in his apartment. That was where I needed him to be so I wouldn’t run into him. Out in the living room, Chic and Tomoko were watching a movie. They politely invited me to join them, but I showed them my gym bag, declined, and got the keys for the car. 

At the gym, I let everything out. I let the manifestation of my pent up frustration go in the most effective way I knew how—physically—by putting my all into the workout. The best way to get everything out would have been ballet, but with my room being too cramped for any floor exercises with real meat, and with the Joffrey studios shut down until Monday morning, the gym was my next best option. It was better than punching someone (namely Jughead or Archie) or a wall—though all were options I’d considered over the hellish last few days I’d had. I went hard on the treadmill and even harder on the punching bag. I did some circuit training, then went to a Pilates class in an attempt to get both my mind and body closer to a meditative state. 

After I showered, I picked up some dinner for myself at Mariano’s, not skimping on the mashed potatoes or gravy, and taking an extra helping of the baked macaroni and cheese. Chic respected my wishes to have my conversation with Jughead on my own terms, and there was no surprise visit from our raven-haired basement neighbor when I got home. Chic and Tomoko made themselves scarce while I ate my dinner. Afterward, I took a cup of tea back to my room to put me to sleep, to get me back on track with my normal hours after the craziness of the last few days. 

I woke up on Sunday to a phone call from Veronica. Like Archie, she’d stopped calling when she couldn’t get through to me. She’d had much better resolve than Archie though, because she’d known me for years and knew how I needed to process sometimes, only calling a few times before leaving me be with an open-ended text that she would allow me a cooling off period before trying again. She further delayed reaching out again when Archie told her I’d gone to see him. When we finally did speak, Veronica was emotional and apologetic, though firm in her belief that she’d done right by me, because although her method may have been brazen, it wasn’t impetuous. From the outside looking in, she foresaw misery and regret, so she took it upon herself to pull the plug. She’d settled with herself that she was okay taking the brunt of any anger from me, so long as I didn’t end up with self-reproach in the end. That was the kind of friend Veronica was. 

When we said our goodbyes, although I was fully awake, I stayed in bed and reveled in the feeling of being relaxed, because it was the last day of the official rest week that I had off. When I thought about Jughead, it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been after I’d come back from my conversation with Archie. I was able to organize my thoughts and compartmentalize what I had to say to him. It was still scary, but bearable. 

Early evening came and I found myself situated in front of my closet for far too long. Chic was home, and when I asked him if he’d checked in with his best friend at all, he informed me Jughead would be home all night, too. Shuffling through the hangers in my closet turned out to be more of a stalling tactic than actually choosing what to wear. I didn’t have to put on a pretty dress or fix my face up flawless just to have a conversation with Jughead. What I needed was to remain calm and maintain my confidence. I always felt so spastic around him. 

I settled on my favorite pair of blue jeans and a jewel-collared pink shirt—a staple in my collection—to give me the extra boost of confidence I needed. If it was true what people said about dressing how you wanted to feel, then I was excited and brave. After I brushed my hair into a ponytail and curled the ends with my curling iron, I was ready. 

The hallway of the basement level had never seemed so daunting before. The fire exit through the laundry room and the stairs I’d come from, to get back upstairs, seemed miles away. When I knocked on Jughead’s door, the sound echoed all around me. I let out a deep breath as I heard movement on the other side of the door. The brass doorknob turned in front of my eyes, then the door was opened, and Jughead stood in front of me.

Dressed in dark jeans and one of his old ‘S’ t-shirts, he looked happy to see me. “Hey there, Juliet.” 

I had to admit it was a good greeting. It was cute and he looked cute saying it, with his hair sticking out in a hundred different directions and his beanie crushed in one hand. 

“Uh…h—hi,” I stammered and immediately cursed myself internally.

Great, we’d just begun by greeting each other and I already sounded dumb. The guy standing in front of me didn’t seem to care though. Jughead hesitated for a moment and looked at his precious beanie, as if trying to decide if he should put it on or not. With a deep breath, he tossed it aside onto the _Kallax_ shelving unit from Ikea that served a dual purpose of storage and room divider, separating his sleeping area from the kitchen. Jughead ran a hand through his hair a few times to tame it into its natural part on the left so the curl that always drooped over his forehead fell over the right side of his face. He rubbed at the back of his neck briefly, just like he’d done when we were 94-stories high in the Hancock Building, then used his free hand to reach out across the empty space between us under the threshold. He took my hand and pulled me into the apartment. Standing in the entryway, his grip was tight as he shut the door behind me and guided me toward the middle of the room.

I’d only been in Jughead’s garden studio unit a few times. It was the smallest apartment in our building and it was tiny. Essentially, it was just one big room, with a bathroom attached, down a short hallway that was roomy enough for the dresser where Jughead kept his clothes. Standing in the middle of the room was pretty much standing in the entire kitchen and merely steps away from both the sleeping area and the desk pushed into the corner. There was one window in the whole place and it looked out into the flower beds of the neighboring building—ideal for Jughead because of his aversion to heights and because his curtains were always closed, blocking out as much sun as possible, especially on those days when he was up half the night writing and needed to get sleep during normal waking hours.

Jughead stood close to me, our chests almost touching. With concern in his blue eyes, he stroked his thumb over the back of my hand lightly. “Are you still mad at me…for what I did?” 

Well, was I?

Knowing all the facts, and having taken the time to digest everything, all of the initial shock had worn off and I didn’t really think I had any reason to be. Jughead hadn’t pawned me off to Archie, and Archie hadn’t just played along. In fact, Jughead didn’t even know Archie had become the captain of my team before the con was unleashed. Knowing he’d been trying to get me to like him, the stupid things Jughead had done didn’t seem so downright stupid anymore.

I looked down at our linked hands. It wasn’t the first time we were holding hands and it wasn’t the first time I thought they looked good together. “I guess not,” I spoke softly.

“Good,” he said timidly. “That’s good.” 

Jughead let go of my hand and our arms fell to our sides. He gulped, and his Adam’s apple bobbed and his voice trembled in his throat when he spoke again, “Also…” 

A beat lapsed with us in close quarters staring at each other, so I filled the gap and asked, “What?” 

I saw his gaze flutter down to my lips before refocusing to meet my eyes. I followed suit and looked at his lips, so close for the very first time. Almost daringly, I dipped my shoulder in a shrug and raised an eyebrow with a tiny smile when I looked in his eyes that were deep and darkened, then repeated, “What?” 

In an instant, Jughead’s lips were on mine. His hands were on either side of my head, fingers on the back of my neck and in my hair, thumbs cupping my face. His sudden burst caught me slightly off-guard and my hand moved up and hovered, but never fully settled on his shoulder. We were pressed up against each other then, literally, by the mouth. My heart pounded in my chest. It wasn’t like dancing, with perfect coordination and poise. It was sensory overload. It was free falling from the Willis Tower. It was jumping through hoops that had been set on fire. It was his head lowered and my chin tilted upward. It was our lips meeting and him kissing me. 

 _Oh my God._ He kissed me. I was kissing Jughead. And it was everything a first kiss should be. It was tender. I could feel my pulse tingling all over, in places I didn’t know I could have a pulse. Butterflies soared in my stomach and made me weak in the knees. He tasted like peppermint and cigarettes and just the faintest bit of coffee. It was our first kiss, and without tongue, so I couldn’t explore it any deeper, but there was something distinctive I’d never gotten out of a kiss before. It was like the way he smelled, like nothing or no one else. The only way to describe it was that he tasted like _Jughead_. 

When the kiss ended, with our eyes still closed, the tips of our noses grazed against each other and made me smile. I felt Jughead’s thumbs brush over both my cheeks, just above my jawline, ever so slightly. He let out a sigh, like he’d been holding it in for so long, like it had been a long time coming and he was relieved to have finally kissed me. 

When I opened my eyes, the wiring in my brain seemed to fire on all cylinders and kept me from getting swept up in the moment. I backed away from Jughead and put my hand over my chest, as if it would ease my heart from beating out of control.

Jughead had concern in his eyes again. “Betty, I—”

“You can’t just kiss me and assume everything is okay,” I cut him off. “You can’t just expect that…that…” I frowned, at a loss for the right words. “I don’t even know what you expect.”

“ _What I expect?_ ” he gaped at me. “I think I’ve made that pretty clear, Betts.” 

“You’ve been in Chicago since the end of August. It took you until two nights ago to tell me if we started something it would have to be different.” I walked to the swiveling desk chair and plopped down before I continued, “You were gaming me up until a few days ago, when we were standing across the street from the bar. How do I know you don’t just enjoy the pursuit? I’m not sure different is what you want, Jug. I’m not sure _I’m_ who you want.”

It was probably the most long-winded thing I’d ever said to Jughead since I was fourteen. It was very honest, too. Just because he said anything he started with me would have to be serious, it didn’t automatically mean that was what he wanted. It was entirely possible he liked me—which was why he’d felt like he needed to lure me in—but he didn’t want anything to change. After all, before he’d revealed he wanted me to like him, he had broken my heart when he told me he wanted me to get over my crush on him.

I wondered if playing a game, giving chase, and keeping me at a distance really was—although twisted—for my own protection. Jughead couldn’t let me down if we never got involved. But it was too late for that after all that had transpired. I needed to know what he wanted, whether or not it involved me.

Jughead took one of the two folding chairs he kept permanently unfolded at the foot of the bed and slid it over a few inches so he could sit directly in front of me. He confused me when he let out a light laugh. “Are you always like this?”

His gesture and word choice were slightly off-putting to me. My expression remained rigid when I replied, “Like what?”

“So…so…difficult,” he got out. “It’s so hard with you.”

_Oh, now you’ve resorted to insulting me?_

“Let me apologize for being such a challenge. So sorry to have been an inconvenience for you, Jughead,” I retorted with a huff.

“Hey now, did I say it was a bad thing?” The corners of Jughead’s lips upturned. “Actually, I like it.”

He was still missing the point. I shook my head. “I don’t…I don’t know, Juggie. Maybe you just like the chase. I don’t want to be the girl you like chasing.” 

“Is that what you were thinking about in the middle of our moment? You are unbelievable, Betty.” Jughead scowled. “The chase? Do I honestly give off the impression that I enjoy _the chase_? Wow. I know I don’t exactly have a glowing personality, but if that’s the vibe I give off, I think I need to reevaluate every single one of my social cues. And no, that’s definitely not who you are to me.”

There. He said it. 

“No?” I replied, hopeful for a further explanation.

“No,” Jughead confirmed. He went silent for a moment as if analyzing what to say next. His expression went serious.

He bit his lip before he spoke, “Do you remember the Fourth of July after my sophomore year of college? It was a long weekend. Chic and I had a fight.” 

“I remember,” I nodded, thinking back and wondering why he was jogging my memory from a few years back, to a time when we rarely interacted. “You were mysteriously absent from our barbecue.”

Ever since I could remember, my parents had held an afternoon barbecue on the Fourth of July. It was kind of like a block party to start off the night. Even as adults, Chic and I always made it back to Riverdale every year for the national holiday and for the barbecue. The Joneses were always invited, ever since Chic and Jughead had been friends. Jughead was always present, and before moving to Toledo, a young Jellybean had been to a few of them, too. The most recent Independence Day barbecue was one from my nightmares—when my crush on Jughead had been renewed and I’d been terrorized by the information that he would be moving to the city I lived in.

The year Jughead made reference to though, he _hadn’t_ made an appearance. After the academic year in Chicago—Chic was still at Northwestern and I’d just graduated from both high school and the dance academy—we, the Cooper siblings, were home for the entire summer. Similarly, Jughead was home from Michigan, and he took a summer job working construction for Fred Andrews. On the fourth of July, when I asked Chic where his partner in bromance was, he simply shrugged and said they’d butted heads over something the day before but was sure it would blow over in a few days. I remembered being disappointed—I hadn’t seen Jughead since Christmas and I wanted to know if he was every bit as crushworthy as I’d believed him to be when I first started crushing on him at fourteen, because at eighteen, I thought my crush on him was a flame that had finally burned out. But there was no way, at the time, I would have asked Chic for specifics about their little quarrel. I didn’t see Jughead at all over the weekend but by the time Monday rolled around, like Chic had predicted, the two of them had resumed their bromance.

“Chic never told you what that fight was about, did he?” Jughead asked.

My eyes widened at the implication of his question. “Are you saying it had to do with me?”

“I…I really liked you, even then. I had a plan back then, too. At the barbecue, I swore to myself I would work up the courage to find a moment alone with you and ask you out on a date,” Jughead confessed and my heart skipped a beat. “I told Chic that was my plan for…I don’t know, his permission, I guess. I know I didn’t need it, not from him, but at the time it seemed important. And he freaked out. He said if I did that, then I would be effectively ending over ten years of being best friends.”

 _Even then_? For so long I’d thought my crush was silent and unrequited, but Jughead had already liked me a few years ago? My brother was the real reason nothing had ever happened between Jughead and me? Chic had never even meddled in my love life until I started hanging out with Archie…or so I thought.

“So you chose Chic. You couldn’t betray your best friend,” I replied, fully aware that to each other, Chic and Jughead would always finish in first place. “I get it.” 

“It’s tough when you’re a summer away from turning 21 and it feels like the person who loves you most in the world, or at least isn’t too caught up in their own personal bullshit to love you, is your platonic best friend. But Betty…I told Chic I was going through with the plan anyway,” Jughead said, surprising me. “I had this idea in my head that you and I could have had a great summer. Then after, you would be back in Chicago and I’d be in Ann Arbor, so at least we’d both be in the Midwest, even if it was a four-hour drive away from each other. We would’ve still seen each other sometimes.”

Warmth rushed to my cheeks. I blushed at the thought of a younger Jughead coming up with a scenario of us. Even as a teenager, I’d thought that among Jughead’s best qualities were his cuteness and his grace. I would have liked to be his girlfriend then. “So what happened?” I wondered.

“It wasn’t even noon and I got the call that I needed to get down to the sheriff’s station. Surprise, surprise – my dad was in the drunk tank. It was the Fourth of July so, of course, he’d gotten a head start the night before, then had beer for breakfast.” Jughead scoffed and shook his head. “It took forever at the station because they had like one deputy on desk duty since it was a holiday. Then I had to take care of my dad and make sure he didn’t have anything else while the neighbors in the trailer park were setting up their fireworks and doing tequila shots. It was pretty late when he sobered up. So I never got to have my moment alone with you that day—I never even got to see you—but by the end of it I knew Chic was right.” 

My heart sank in my chest. Was that really it? No, my brother wasn’t to blame for why, after all the time that had gone by, Jughead hadn’t paid any attention to me. I couldn’t compete with Jughead’s dad for his attention, especially a few years back, before FP got help. Hell, Chic couldn’t even compete, and he was Jughead’s best friend. So Jughead had decided for himself not to act on his feelings because of circumstances that were much bigger than us. FP had been a lousy father to Jughead in his youth, there was no getting around that, but addiction was a disease, and alcoholism had consumed him. There was no argument to be made that Jughead should have stopped giving FP chances or should have stopped trying to rescue him from himself, because eventually, years later, FP straightened his life out through an unlikely combination of prison and the lottery. And Lord knew there were brief moments in time when FP had saved Jughead and kept him on the right path, too. 

“I would have let you down. I was just turning 21 and you’d just graduated from high school. But believe me, it was never you being younger than me or your maturity I ever questioned. On paper I was just another college kid, but in reality, my life was a mess. Especially once my dad went away for 18 months. Those were some really dark times. Everything I was going through would have put such a strain on a new relationship – and one that was long distance? Forget it. I know I would have messed something up and you would’ve never been able to forgive me. Then you never would’ve spoken to me again,” Jughead said tensely. “So Chic was right to tell me to stay away from you then. He never did it to keep his best friend and his little sister from getting together like some bigot. He did it to keep us from going down a path we could never walk back from. Thinking about it now, if a few years ago would have been our one shot and it didn’t work out…well, I wouldn’t be okay with that. When I see myself with you, it’s not just for a little while or tentative or a trial run. It’s for real, Betty.” 

At Jughead’s words, I felt tears spill down my cheeks. I was overcome with emotion, knowing how he felt and what Chic had done for us. It was easy to say that I didn’t want my brother meddling in my life, that it should have always been my choice to choose to date Jughead at eighteen if I wanted, and that I would have always made the right decision for myself. I could have blamed Jughead for taking away the option completely by not approaching me at all and not giving me the chance to be there for him and go through those dark times with him. 

But…no. Jughead didn’t know about my own demons at age eighteen. I hadn’t always been comfortable in my own skin or confident in my path as a professional ballet dancer, which at one point encompassed every piece of my life. It wasn’t until after I became an apprentice with Joffrey that I started working through my issues with Dr. Donahue, and it was only with the help of the counseling that I maintained my neuroses in a healthy way. 

All the time I’d spent crushing on Jughead, in my schoolgirl fantasies where I thought we’d be good together…those dreams had all been very of the moment. It wasn’t until recently when I realized my real feelings about him, and through talking to my brother, that I truly considered the repercussions of a relationship with Jughead. But on his end, when it came to me, Jughead had always thought about the long-term. That was just like him. That was his grace I’d always admired, and knowing he approached involvement with me that way was what brought me to tears. 

So, no. I couldn’t make a big fuss over my agency being taken away by Jughead or Chic or Archie or even Veronica. The right time for Jughead and me wasn’t when we were younger. It wasn’t back in August when he’d moved to Chicago and we started playing our shell games. The right time wasn’t even the night before or two nights ago. The right time for Jughead and me was _this_ time. With honesty and full disclosure. With all of our cards on the table. 

“Wow, Juggie,” I offered, nearly speechless as I wiped at my face with the heel of my palm. 

“I wasn’t ready then,” Jughead shook his head, “but I’m ready now.” 

I was about to tell him I agreed and I was on board with his rationale, but he held up a hand, indicating he had more to say.

“I hadn’t figured out the balance yet back then, how to deal with my family and the relationship I wanted with you,” he went on. “But I really have grown up since then. And I get it, you like me but I’m…maybe I’m not worthy of you. Hopefully you can ignore that while I get there, because I think I’m on my way up there, and because I think we have a real chance now.” 

“You think you’re not worthy of _me_?” I asked, a little dumbfounded. Archie had brought up the same idea of what Jughead thought of himself when we’d talked. I didn’t understand it because I’d always admired Jughead from afar, always intimidated and self-conscious around him. 

Jughead frowned, the indents above his eyebrows forming. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“I just told you I’ve liked you for years. But I can tell you make me out to be more than I really am. You’ve gotten into this habit of always treating me like I’m ten feet tall.” Jughead reached over and touched my arm. “That’s not fair to you. That gives me an excuse to…to…take you for granted. And that’s the last thing I want to do.” 

He pulled his hand back and began his usual nervous tick of rubbing the back of his neck. Without his beanie in the way, he carded his fingers through his hair a few times, too. Jughead sucked his lips into his mouth in a straight line before he cringed at himself and spoke again, “None of this is coming out right. I’ve played this moment out in my head so many times. Now that it’s actually happening, I don’t even remember any of the things I wanted to say to you. And I’m a writer—they were going to be stated eloquently, I swear.”

I laughed out loud. Of course he still had that effect on me. I didn’t know if he meant to insult me or compliment me, but he could make me laugh with his unique sense of humor. What kind of wordsmith admitted, out loud in conversation, that they had to plan in order for their words to be ‘stated eloquently’? It was funny, too, because I’d spent the last day organizing my thoughts and sorting what I thought needed to be said during our conversation. And just like him, my plans for my talking points had already drifted slowly to the side and swerved off the road.

“Take your time,” I said.

Jughead stopped his nervous tick. For good measure, he sat on his hands. I leaned back into the cushion of the ergonomic desk chair, watched him, and waited for him to continue. I wanted to knock on the wooden desk for good luck, for both of us. 

“I guess I always had a feeling you liked me, and you know now that I liked you, too,” he began. “Since that Fourth of July long weekend that I never got to ask you out, when things went sideways, I figured it was a good thing, because I’ve never been ready to be committed long-term to anyone, not really. So I told myself I could put my feelings on hold and come back to you once I was ready and—”

“That sounds horrible, I know. But I don’t mean it in a bad way, I swear,” Jughead cut off his borderline egocentric sentence hurriedly before I could even react. “If you really did like me, I didn’t want to disappoint you because I couldn’t handle it, because I wasn’t ready yet. When I found out there was a possibility of me going to grad school in Chicago, you’re the first person I thought of. You and me could finally happen and this time Chic wouldn’t be mad and threaten to break up with me because he, of all people, knows my life isn’t as sad and dire as it used to be. But I should have known, when I saw you at the barbecue this summer, how much you’ve grown up, too.”

A smile made its way onto my face. I could see the real Jughead again as he spoke. We were in the middle of a serious conversation and he was being sensitive, but he was funny, too, and he didn’t even have to try. The line about Chic breaking up with him was so on point.

“I wanted to tell you all this on my birthday, when we were sitting outside at the picnic table, until Chic interrupted to leave for the movie. But it was probably too late even at that point anyway. Because you’re not just Chic’s little sister anymore. You’re so…good. Damn it, Betty, you’re the best person I know. And you’re this totally beautiful, talented, confident ballerina. You have so much going for you.” Jughead’s shoulders slumped. “No wonder you dismissed your crush on me. No wonder you fell for Archie. I _never_ should have asked for his help. And he’s completely legit, too, right? The way he carries himself around you isn’t a front? A real fucking heartthrob, that guy. But me? I’m just…Jughead.”

There was a lot I could say in response. For one, I still wasn’t a ballerina and I wouldn’t get the opportunity to be since I wasn’t a principal dancer—I wasn’t even a soloist yet. I’d reminded him of the fact, several times over the years, but he still called me that anyway. It was kind of cute though. Maybe he did it on purpose. Maybe I kind of liked it.

His most ‘out there’ idea was that I’d ever dismissed my crush since meeting Archie. At Archie’s gig, Jughead had made up a lie and said he’d hoped Archie would be enough of a distraction so I would stop crushing on him. Knowing he wanted the opposite, knowing he wanted me to like him, and having already admitted to him that I liked him, I was surprised at what he said. He had started the games, conning me before I thought to con him. Jughead had also truly failed miserably, because he still believed the charade. He hadn’t been entirely sure I liked him, but he was pretty sure, and he’d left it alone for years, for what I’d just learned was valid reasoning. He really thought I would trade in my crush on him of multiple years for some other guy? Boy, he really was clueless. 

As he said, he was just Jughead. But I liked ‘just Jughead’. I had so much more than a crush on just Jughead. It was time for just Jughead to finally get a clue.

“Are you saying you’re jealous of Archie?” I asked.

“Well, he’s the one you ended up liking,” Jughead said with a shrug.

His jealousy was what Archie and I had worked so hard on. We knew we’d succeeded because we’d seen it. But hearing Jughead say it out loud was something else. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a moron. I reverted back to my usual way of self-loathing because I’d created this grand scheme and it backfired. It became all about Archie and all the luck he had with you, because it seemed like you liked him more than you ever liked me. So when I found out about him and Veronica, I lost it, because I felt like garbage knowing I made that happen…that he was treating you like shit and it was my fault for asking him to get involved in the first place. I was so mean to you, that night at his gig. I can’t believe I made it seem like I was annoyed you liked me, like you were a nuisance. That was so awful and I’m sorry,” Jughead apologized, with sorrow in his eyes. “Obviously I don’t want to get rid of you. You know that right? And now I’m rambling. But just…everything I did…I created a grand scheme because I wanted you to fall for me.”

He could ramble all he wanted. I silently accepted his apology and I was already so gone for him. I was right where he was. And it was my turn to be a brave truth teller who leapt from a tall ledge into the unknown. 

“I need to tell you something,” I spoke softly. “Actually, I need to tell you a few things.” 

Jughead mistook my need for confession as bad news and huffed, “Will you let me down easy?” 

“Jug, I don’t know if you’ll still feel the same way after I tell you this…” I took a deep breath and leaned forward, pressing my fingers into the sides of the desk chair instead of the pads of my thumbs like I usually would have. “The truth is…I was never dating Archie. Not really. I wasn’t hanging out with him with the intention of getting to a point where I would be dating him either.” 

Jughead’s expression was quizzical. “What does that even mean?” 

“You once told me I should be careful about getting burned while playing a game. You were spot on about that – I was playing a game. I was running a con,” I elaborated, “but I wasn’t conning Archie. We were running it together and you were our mark.” 

“I don’t understand. I brought Archie in.” 

“He switched up his plan on you. I know he didn’t tell you because you still think I fell for Archie, you think I like him even though he and Veronica betrayed me. But they didn’t. I didn’t fall for Archie after a few weeks of hanging out with him. We just upped our game.” I confessed, “We were trying to smoke you out, get you to crack first. Our relationship—if you can even call it that—was for show. We got really close, we became good friends, and Archie was with me every step of the way. But the whole time we were trying to get you to make your move.” 

“But you didn’t know how I felt?” Jughead wondered. 

“Same as you, I was hopeful,” I admitted. “Archie played us both, you know. He was always so reassuring and encouraging. He swore that based on your reactions there was no way you didn’t like me, but he never outright told me he’d started off with a plan the two of you had come up with together.” 

“So all this time I felt bad about what I was doing, rightfully so,” Jughead mused, “and you were doing it right back?” 

My heart rate jumped at Jughead’s question. _Shit_. “Are you mad?”

“At Archie? _Hell_ yeah,” Jughead said emphatically. “Look at this mess we’re in because he decided to play hero for us.” 

“You just said it—he did it for us, Jug. His heart was in the right place. In all the time we spent together, he was never that typical jock guy you warned me he would be,” I defended our slick two-timing hero. “He left such a good impression on me. He was simple and sweet. He was charming and became a real friend. He never _acted_ that part. That’s who he really is. You probably know that better than I do, since he was your friend to begin with.” 

“So you and Archie never…” Jughead didn’t finish his question but grimaced instead, like he wasn’t sure if he even wanted me to answer. He looked just as uncomfortable as he did the night of our big blow up, at Archie’s gig, when in anger I’d implied Archie and I had gotten more than friendly. 

“I never slept with Archie,” I said bluntly. “He always wanted it to be clear you knew that never happened.” 

“Really?” 

“What if I had?” I countered Jughead’s question with a question of my own, turning the tables back on him. “Would you still want me then? Because even if I had, it wasn’t like you had a claim on me, Jug.” 

“I know that, Betty,” Jughead retorted. “I told you…I’ve grown up. I’m not sixteen; I wouldn’t have expected you to just toil away with your crush on me. You’re an adult, which means you get to do whatever you want with whoever you want. You’ve always done that anyway – getting out of Riverdale, pursuing dance, and living your life the way you want, on your own terms. I know you’re not some damsel in distress who needs saving. You’re passionate and strong. You go after what you want. I respect that. I like you even more because of that.” 

I thought back to the idea that the qualities people were attracted to were qualities they wished they saw in themselves. I’d always thought the idea applied where my attraction to Jughead was concerned, but it wasn’t so straightforward, because for a long time I’d thought Jughead and I had a lot in common. And maybe we had even more in common than I thought—evidently the qualities he sought and saw in me were the same I saw in him. 

“Don’t you think, as adults, we should be angrier at ourselves than at Archie?” I posed another round of questions. “For not talking to each other about how we feel or communicating like normal adults?” 

Jughead shook his head and pursed his lips into a small, cynical smile before he spoke, “I’m not normal. I’m not wired to be normal.” 

A small guffaw escaped my throat. All we’d gone through to get each other’s attention certainly suggested his tragic statement wasn’t a lie for him or for myself. 

“Neither am I,” I answered. 

Jughead grinned at me, showing his teeth, and I thought I saw mirth in his eyes. We had a lot we’d have to work on and work out. We weren’t normal and we were far from perfect. But I hoped we could move forward and figure out being ‘not normal’ together. 

“Look, I know I’m not Archie. I should have known if anyone could make Archie better—pull his head out of his ass and stop being a fuckboy—it would be you, even if it’s not in the romantic sense. I won’t be able to impress you the way he did,” Jughead paused, his voice going soft, “but I still want the chance to try. I’m ready to be the best version of myself. I want to be the one who makes you feel special.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, though I had already cried. Because he was genuine with his speech, no dry humor or wit, it was the sweetest thing Jughead had ever said to me. Maybe the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me. And, well, Jughead had been my ultimate all along.

He removed his hands from under his knees. His eyes of baby blue kept shifting focus, searching mine. He urged, “Please say something now, Betty.”

I was already impressed. I always had been. A total heartthrob wasn’t who I was after. But a guy who’d crashed and burned to win me over? I was into that. It was my kind of stupid. Jughead’s imperfections were part of his charm. They were part of mine, too. For so long we’d wanted the same thing – apparently we just had a massive communication problem.

But no more. He liked me. He thought I was beautiful. He wanted me to feel special. It was time for him to know exactly how I felt about him. And damn it, he looked so cute on the edge of his seat with a pouty lower lip and pleading eyes.

“No,” I said.

“No?”

“No,” I repeated firmly. “I’m not going to say anything.”

My heartbeat was racing but I smirked, matching Jughead’s amusement. I leaned forward to meet him until our knees touched. My hands settled onto his shoulders and then went around to the nape of his neck to bring him closer. Then, with all of my confidence and all of my feelings, I kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a heartfelt _thank you_ to everyone who supported this story, and me, in 2017. I hope you will be along for the ride for what I have in store in 2018. I always appreciate it when I hear from you, so please do let me know what you think.  <3
> 
> The final chapter, the epilogue, will be posted in a few days.
> 
> [Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/169454464755/the-con-extended-chapter-notes) are on [my tumblr](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/).


	13. The Airport (Epilogue)

From a plane window, the descent into Chicago was quite underwhelming. O’Hare was on the northwest side of the city, bordering on blue-collar neighborhoods like the one I lived in as well as the northwest suburbs. The pride and joy of the Second City, what renowned it as a world-class city, was due east—more cosmopolitan the closer you got to Lake Michigan. But a plane’s descent into New York City? LaGuardia, the Cooper family airport of choice based on proximity to Riverdale, was in the borough of Queens. The bird’s eye view showed the bounds of neighboring communities that were part of the city’s concrete jungle, and the waters of the East River and Flushing Bay that surrounded the runways. 

In total size, the state of New York was a few thousand square miles smaller than Illinois. It always felt larger though, and that began with the experience of an aerial arrival. New York City was crowded, lively, and bustling—even in Queens. But being in Queens meant I was still a ways away from home. There was about an hour’s drive to go, past Harlem and across the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey, then northward bound through the Garden State’s suburbs, until the population numbers listed on town welcome signs diminished and the state line back into New York was crossed, until the landscape looked more like Illinois. 

It was the third of July. Chic and I had made the trip from Chicago right in time for our parents’ annual Independence Day barbecue that would take place the next day. It was an unlucky calendar year because the holiday had fallen right smack in the middle of the week on a Wednesday, which meant—unlike the last two years—there was no long weekend. Parties would not be allowed to reach legendary status.

Once I was off the jet bridge and into the airport, I told my brother I would meet him at the baggage carousel before I quickly ducked into the first restroom I could find. A two-hour flight into the next time zone and a shift into a climate with different humidity level was more than enough cause for me to check on my complexion. The fluorescent lighting made me look too washed out for an afternoon arrival, but it also helped me see the areas on my face I’d want to emphasize. I quickly got out my favorite ‘multiple’ stick and my cellphone, and kept in mind if I got a new text asking where I was, then baggage claim had been speedy and I was the hold up for my ride.

But the last text I’d received was the one I’d gotten just before I toggled my phone into Airplane Mode back in the Central time zone: _Can’t wait to reunite._

First, I used the multiple as a blush stick, smearing a bit on the tops of my cheekbones. With much lighter strokes I applied some to my t-zone and chin. I used my fingers to blend the pigment into my skin, giving me a bit of a dewy appearance. It was like getting freshened up, all packed into a compact makeup stick. Finally, I dabbed some onto my lips, just enough to enhance the color but not enough to make a mess if my lips were to receive any attention. The last thing I did was pull out the elastic hair tie that kept my hair in a ponytail, shaking out the blonde tresses until they fell as waves around my face.

Down one level via an escalator and I was welcomed to the Arrivals level. I saw Chic, arms crossed over his chest, two carousels away from me, and began walking toward him. Since Chic and I had come on a domestic flight and there was no need to go through customs, the passengers had beat the baggage into the airport, with the carousel circling on standby, but without any bags dropped as of yet. I was right to hurry in the restroom because outside the entrance, I could see cars, taxis, and busses pulling up to and away from the curb in quick succession. In the hustle and bustle of a busy travel day, I didn’t see or hear the person who crept up behind me. I nearly yelped when small palms covered my face and a sugary sweet voice rang in my ear, “Guess who?”

I gave my heart a few beats to adjust after my fight-or-flight response had been elicited. No, there was no imminent danger. The voice was familiar. “Hi, JB.”

“Hey,” Jellybean greeted and hugged me. “Betty, it’s been so long!”

“It’s really nice to see you,” I smiled. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Not since September,” Jellybean reminded me. 

She was right. Summer was usually the only time I saw Jellybean, if I saw her at all. I did see her after last summer, but it was still a long time ago—last autumn. I hadn’t seen her since her older brother moved to Chicago, into the same building as my brother and me. She looked a little different than she had in September, with a few more tattoos adorning her arms and her hair coiffed into an adorable pixie cut.

“Speaking of September,” Jellybean said, “I’ve seen a lot of Veronica Lodge’s Instagram Stories from Europe lately. Our boy Archie seems to be doing pretty well for himself.”

There it was – that was the reason there was no way I could forget the last time I saw Jellybean. It was during her few days in Chicago that I began hanging out with Archie. Jellybean had been in the room when Archie proposed a plan for a con to me, to gain the attention of a guy I’d first crushed on when I was fourteen. When the con was over, Archie and I had become such good friends that we didn’t just disappear from each other’s lives. I still saw him frequently and we exchanged text messages regularly.

“I’m really happy for him,” I said honestly.

There was also the fact that Archie was dating Veronica, my best friend.

In the midst of pulling the con, they met and immediately hit it off, sparks flying and fireworks between them. Their decision to begin dating while the con was still in progress wound up being its downfall. It was fitting really, that Archie would be the one to topple over the house of cards he’d so carefully constructed. When Archie and I told Veronica about the finer details of the game, she smirked all the way up to her exquisite eyebrows and said it sounded just like her _Archiekins_ : a perfect combination of loyalty and trouble. 

In May, Archie graduated from college and was promptly whisked off to Europe for the summer as a graduation present from his girlfriend. Having access to money was nothing new to Veronica, who was familiar several times over with all the hotspots they hit up. There were short snippets of the two of them in Barcelona, Lisbon, Prague, Istanbul, and the like on Instagram. On Veronica’s popular YouTube channel, each destination was featured as part of a travel series, with Archie caught on video in a few frames. 

Before they’d left town for the summer, Archie checked in with me to see how I was handling the fallout of our con. He’d also confessed to me how far gone for Veronica he was. He’d never met anyone like her and all he wanted to do was make her happy. They were so lucky and _he_ was so happy. I was happy for him.

“So, _speaking of September_ ,” I copied Jellybean’s segue, “where’s Jughead?”

Jellybean replied, “He dropped me off at the entrance and went to park the car. He’ll be here soon.”

Yup. Jughead was my ride back to Riverdale. An hour (or maybe an hour and a half, if there was traffic) in the car with my brother’s best friend, the crush I’d never gotten over.

“Why would he park?” I wondered. “By the time he circled the car around a few times, we could’ve been standing out in front already.”

“I don’t have the time or energy to question his methods, Betty. I am easygoing – I just go with the flow. Maybe he wants to make a grand entrance and sweep you off your feet,” Jellybean rolled her eyes and shrugged as a smirk worked its way onto her lips. “You know how weird your boyfriend is.”

Oh, right. There was that. Jughead was my boyfriend. _My boyfriend._ Eight months later and sometimes I still felt giddy when I reminded myself.

It didn’t take long for Jughead and I to get together after the night we kissed for the very first time. We only had to go on two dates before he asked me to be his girlfriend for real. We’d spent so much time waiting to be together over the years, so there was no reason to put it off any longer. To tell anyone who didn’t know us about the beginning of our relationship, it probably seemed sudden and too fast, but it was anything but sudden to us—we’d endured years of pining and timing that wouldn’t sync up.

Jughead didn’t disappoint. Time passed quickly once we began our relationship. We were good for each other and we adored each other. Before we became a couple we were both uncomfortable being around each other, because we could only think about hiding how much we liked each other while silently hoping that we each liked the other back, but that quickly dissolved into a non-issue. I’d practically moved into Jughead’s tiny apartment, which was hardly big enough for one person, made convenient by the fact that I lived just upstairs from him. Every night we fell asleep wrapped around each other in his double bed.

“There he is,” I told Jellybean when the man of the hour walked through one of the sliding door entrances.

Jughead walked his path with purpose but it wasn’t toward Jellybean and me; he went right in the direction where Chic was standing. Not that I was surprised. He and Chic had been soul mates long before he and I got together. Anyway, between my brother and me, Chic was the first one he saw, so Jughead made a beeline toward him. They half-hugged briefly and moved right into a conversation.

Jellybean and I resumed walking toward the carousel where our brothers were standing and I spoke again, “Thank you for not saying anything…about my crush on him…by the way.” 

She’d been present, pretending to be asleep, when Archie and I concocted our plan for our con. She’d told me she knew all about the plan but vowed to keep her knowledge to herself, a promise she’d kept until Jughead and I got together. 

Like we’d discussed last Labor Day, Jellybean and I had stayed in contact, exchanging casual pleasantries and sending each other memes when they reminded us of each other. Our interaction increased even more once Jughead and I became an official couple—I sometimes found myself in the background of her conversations with her brother, whether it was on the phone or online. So I’d already thanked her months ago for keeping her mouth shut like she’d told me she would, but I had yet to do so in person. 

“I told you I could keep a secret,” Jellybean said in a very matter-of-fact manner. “Besides, I knew everything would work out for you two eventually if you just let it take its course.”

Looking back, if Jughead and I had straight up told each other we liked each other, we could have gotten together sooner. The games we both bought into and played were a colossal waste of time. But Jellybean was right, too. There was something to be said about letting things play their course. Jughead and I were idiots for scheming, but as a result of all the scheming, we were forced to be transparent with each other right from the start of the relationship (something—according to Dr. Donahue—not all couples had even years into their relationships), and we got together at the right time. Once we did, more than ever I understood why Jughead had put the possibility of an ‘us’ on hold until he was ready, until we were both ready. It would have broken my heart if we’d gotten together earlier and we couldn’t handle it, and there would be no way to walk it back. Instead, I found myself more smitten with him than I’d ever been as a teenager. 

While we were gaming each other, I’d always thought I didn’t learn anything new about Jughead, which had been frustrating. As it turned out though, conning each other had been a big mistake on both our parts, but also a very valuable learning experience. In the end, it taught us everything we’d done wrong, which ensured we’d never go back to our old ways. Taking the wrong path set us up on the _right_ path; it primed us for the journey that was to come. And as soon as our relationship started, we learned so much about each other because we knew how to meet in the middle and grow together. I was right in my belief that we were compatible and we’d be good together. We talked to each other and listened. Jughead told me things he didn’t even share with Chic. I told him stuff I’d previously only felt comfortable speaking about with Dr. Donahue. There were also times when we didn’t talk at all, but understood each other and just enjoyed each other’s company. In a whirlwind, we got close really fast. 

We had far fewer bad days than good days, but we did have the bad ones, too. And that was a good thing, because it made us real. Sometimes we got irritated with each other. Sometimes we argued. But the key was that we could communicate and get on the same page. We had to accept every part of each other, and because we did, it made our relationship better and we made each other better. 

Jughead had been right when he’d said anything between us would be different. Special. Maybe it was because we’d waited so long to be together. Maybe it was because we’d come to understand the gravity of our attraction and affection for each other, culminating in love. Sometimes when we laid in bed together, skin to skin, holding hands and staring into the depths of the light in each other’s eyes, it was like we each had everything the other needed to be whole. 

So when we were apart, I felt like part of me was missing. That was quite a weight for a relationship that was less than a year old. But Jughead and I could handle it. Like Chic predicted when our feelings had first been revealed, our lives were changed. We were in for the long haul. 

But life didn’t slow down for anyone. By winter, Jughead had begun working on his novel—his eventual final project for his MFA—and I was back in a performance cycle for the Joffrey Ballet’s only mixed repertoire program for the season, _Modern Masters_. In March, a touring month for the ballet company, Jughead and I came up on our first few weeks of being away from each other since getting together. I was out of town for four weeks, one of which fell during Jughead’s spring break. One of the two limited-run productions performed on tour, in Los Angeles, was a 1930’s retelling of _Romeo & Juliet_, of forbidden love set against a backdrop of wartime and political conflict. The ballet about the star-crossed lovers only served to make me miss my boyfriend even more. Absence really did make the heart grow fonder. And yes, we were in love, though I was sure we’d be without the tragic ending. 

When spring was in bloom, so were we. Jughead and I spent the days of cardigan weather on patios and rooftops in between the preparation for the Joffrey Ballet’s season-ending production of a very un-Shakespearean _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and Jughead’s more aggressive second semester. Before we got together, we’d had a massive miscommunication problem. By May, it felt like we could talk to each other even without words. 

It was the summer that brought about our next long distance challenge. Given the promise of a teaching assistant job with SAIC’s writing department for the next fall, Jughead was able to quit his job at Papyrus to enjoy the summer, which allowed for him to make a sizeable dent in his novel and visit his family. He left for Ohio the second week of June, stopping by to get Jellybean before they both made their way to Riverdale. I would have joined them, but I’d been sought out by some of my favorite Joffrey Academy faculty to participate in the June junior summer intensive session as a mentor. It meant chaperoning a group of nine- to eleven-year-old kids, walking them to and from the dorms, being available to them during lunch and breaks if they wanted to chat with someone in the dance profession (or even as a confidant if they wanted), and accompanying them during the weekend activities for their two-week stay in Chicago. Joffrey dance contracts were from August to May, so company members didn’t get paid during the summer, and the mentoring gig was a relatively painless way to make a little summer cash. 

At the time I got asked, I was a candidate up for promotion, so I didn’t think I could say ‘no’ anyway. On the day I signed my contract renewal form, the day the word in boldface font after the job title finally read _Soloist_ , and the salary number had a small bump, I knew I’d made the right choice. Rising from the ranks of the corps was my biggest accomplishment in ballet and it had been hard-fought. It was a reflection of the balance and composure of my professional life as well as my personal life. I could be confident—in all aspects of my life—that I deserved what I had because only I could make those successes happen, and I had been the one to make them happen. 

Nearly a month had passed since the last time Jughead and I had seen each other in person. I had all of July off, and half of August, to spend with Jughead. I was fortunate: I was excited to spend the rest of the summer with him in our childhood hometown, then get back to Chicago, my adopted hometown, and live my usual day-to-day life with him there. 

Jughead and Chic didn’t even look up until Jellybean and I reached them. How they’d ever survived the years of college and Jughead’s time in Toledo apart, I would never know. I knew I wanted Chic and Jellybean to be co-pilots for the driving duties back to Riverdale so I could sit in the back seat with Jughead while I held his hand and giggled over stupid shit—tales of antics from the summer job he’d taken and tales of the young dance mentees I’d chaperoned for two weeks. If I knew Chic and Jughead though, the kind of best friends they were, they probably wanted to hang out in the front all the way home and get nostalgic over the sights we would pass, and the memories attached from their time growing up together. 

Once I was in front of Jughead, he had the same mirth in his eyes as he’d had on the night we shared our first kisses. I grimaced at him and teased, “Oh, _honey_ , you didn’t need to get all dressed up for me.”

“Here I was, excited to see you—counting down the _minutes_ —and that’s the first thing you have to say to me?” Jughead scoffed with mock seriousness.

“You didn’t even shower, did you?” I retorted.

He smiled haughtily and angled his chin down before he wiggled an eyebrow at me. “Do you want to come over here and find out?” 

I rolled my eyes. Jughead had taken a job working construction for Fred Andrews for his weeks home in Riverdale. He had worked for Fred in the past, but never at the same time as FP, who was a foreman. Since starting the job, Jughead had been on FP’s crew and Jughead reported to me that his old man, sober and off the beaten path, was getting a kick out of bossing him around without resistance for once. As a man who’d driven an hour straight from the construction site, Jughead was decked out in work wear. Well, halfway. He had on a pair of faded jeans, not in the usual slim style he wore, but rather, baggy enough to fit over steel-toed boots. His suspenders, which usually dangled around his hips, were strapped over his shoulders, over a white undershirt and nothing else. His token gray beanie replaced the yellow hard hat he would have worn at the job site. 

What I didn’t tell Jughead was how good his arms looked in that formfitting shirt and the impure thoughts it gave me, especially since I knew what was underneath. A week ago he’d asked me if I thought he would get a nice view of my ceiling from the bed once I got to Riverdale. I’d told him the chances of that happening under Alice Cooper’s roof, even though we were adults, were slim to none. Ever since that conversation I’d pictured Jughead in the pastel sheets of my very _shabby chic_ , very floral childhood bedroom and, always with a smirk on my face, figured I had a few tricks up my sleeve that involved a ladder and an unlocked window. What my mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. 

Back in Chicago, Jughead and Chic were gym buddies, so Jughead did put in some effort to maintain his physique to counter all the burgers he enjoyed. But clearly the manual labor was working in a way that his standard gym reps weren’t. 

“I had to leave the site early to avoid the traffic on the way here—I didn’t even pick up Jelly, she met me there. But we still got backed up on the Parkway.” Jughead teased cheekily, “Sorry I forgot to spritz the _Drakkar Noir_.” 

“You know I’m only kidding, Juggie,” I laughed and reached out for him. “Get over here already.”

His arms went around my waist and then I was pressed up against his chest, up against his stupid shirt that gave me impure ideas. Even if he had left straight from the construction site, he didn’t smell bad. He had his Jughead-specific scent—aftershave and sandalwood and nicotine—one I’d been craving since the last time I’d been in his arms. Jughead smiled, just a little bit, and I giggled. He leaned in and kissed me softly, just once, his lips ghosting over mine.

I confessed, “I missed you.”

“I missed you even more,” he whispered back.

That was us in a nutshell. Everything I’d liked about Jughead was everything we were. We took our relationship seriously, and, maybe ironically, the key to it being successful was not taking ourselves or each other too seriously all of the time. The grace he had that I’d admired so much, together, we had it. But we also didn’t hesitate to be who we really were: not normal. It turned out figuring out ‘not normal’ together was a total blast, better than I ever could have imagined.

We teased each other and one-upped each other…and then we would make out. A few times when we’d gone grocery shopping together, he stood beside me in the middle of the aisle and imitated my posture and the way my feet naturally pointed out due to muscle memory even if I was just standing still. But he certainly didn’t make fun of my hip rotation that gave me great turnout when we were having sex, especially when he realized after our first time together how intense it was with a dancer. I complained about the absurd selection of History Channel documentaries he insisted on recording on the DVR in my living room and his weird obsession with acquiring a vintage Underwood typewriter ( _“It sounds pretty hipster to me, Jug.” “Betty, you could not be more wrong – it’s the typewriter of champions!”_ ). But at the end of the day I was happy he was _my_ weirdo. He was my person. And, okay, secretly I planned on getting him an Underwood for next Christmas.

Like I said, we were good for each other. We evened each other out.

“How are you feeling?” I wondered.

He wasn’t sick or under the weather, but he was feeling down. Over the last few days, I’d heard about it on the phone. 

Jughead hadn’t decided to spend his summer vacation in Riverdale because he loved his hometown. It was who was in Riverdale that brought him back. It was his dad he loved. FP had just celebrated the four-year anniversary of his sobriety in April, but it wasn’t without difficult self-wrangling. 

Living without struggling to make ends meet had helped FP. Being respected at work and even looked up to in his community—it motivated him and kept him on track. But money didn’t solve addiction and it didn’t take away guilt of past mistakes. A few times in the spring, Jughead and I had woken up to his cellphone ringing in the middle of the night, with a hysterical FP on the other end of the line, crying and begging for his son to talk him through the strife in his head, and keep him from falling off the wagon. 

As their gift to their dad for his 50th birthday, Jughead and Jellybean decided they would spend the summer in Riverdale with him, to create new family memories he could look back on and appreciate when, late at night, he had a freight train running through the middle of his head. I thought he was lucky his kids loved him that much, and glad he’d come so far that their plan was viable. I got choked up just thinking about the Joneses flourishing not just individually but as a unit as well. After all the unfortunately true stories I’d heard about their tempestuous past, I knew how much it meant to Jughead for them to thrive. 

But that didn’t mean it was all easy and rosy or sweet like a milkshake from the Chock’lit Shoppe with a maraschino cherry on top. Jughead shared with me that, yeah, it was great while he and Jellybean were in town, but in the last few days he’d relayed to me that he was worried it would amplify to tenfold worse once they all returned to their lives. Jughead had dealt with FP’s addiction for nearly his entire life and he was the only one who’d never abandoned his father. Jughead’s biggest fear wasn’t that he wouldn’t be accepted for who he really was or that he wouldn’t thrive as a writer. His biggest fear wasn’t about himself at all. It was that he wouldn’t be able to save FP from being dragged out by the undertow of his vices. 

I’d tried to remind Jughead that FP had a sponsor, he had a friend in Fred, and he was consistent about going to AA meetings. Better yet, he remained on an upward trend of recovery—the middle of the night phone calls served as evidence. I got what Jughead meant though, his worry of not being around his dad if a bough broke, and I wondered if it was time for the Joneses to evaluate if FP should consider a move to Chicago. I loved Jughead, and I wanted to support him in his endeavors to help FP. My relationship with Jughead wasn’t in its infancy and we weren’t kids with our heads in the clouds anymore. We were steady. And that meant we faced our problems together. I looked forward to spending time with him and his family, because I found it more difficult to rationalize with Jughead without being near him. I felt much more confident we could provide each other with the comfort that we sought from each other, when we were in the same place, breathing the same air. 

He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb and answered my question, “I’m better now that you’re here.”

Under his layers of moodiness and broodiness, and sardonic humor and acerbic wit, was a layer Jughead saved just for me—a cheesy one. The words he’d just uttered served as proof. He’d made good to me what he said on that night in November: he made me feel special. No one was as close to him, physically and emotionally, as I was. 

In appreciation of his declaration, I kissed him again, but not so innocently. I let go of his hand and put both of my palms on his cheeks as I closed my eyes and kissed him with fervor. Jughead held me in place, supporting me by the small of my back with one hand and cupping my neck with the other as we were attached at the mouth.

“I think that’s enough,” my brother’s voice cut in after a few seconds. “Please stop making out with my little sister.”

Jughead and I broke apart grinning and I buried my face into his chest. Jellybean chuckled but Chic glowered at us. He’d been supportive and on board with the relationship between his sister and his best friend—even encouraging—but that didn’t mean he wanted to watch our affection in public.

As Chic and Jellybean started toward the exit, waiting for us with the luggage in tow, I pressed my lips to Jughead’s quickly and stole one more kiss, getting only the faintest taste of his peppermint. 

“To be continued,” I told him. 

He took my hand, squeezed it and intertwined our fingers as we walked out of the airport. Since he had parked, he led the way.

Our bouts of long distance were tough, but we were tougher, because together we’d come so far. I used to think the con had been a waste of time and a massive failure we could’ve done without. But when I really thought about it, it wasn’t worthless since we’d learned and grown because of it. I thought that maybe just because the two of us had failed, it didn’t mean the whole thing was a wash if Archie’s gameplay—which deserved props—was considered. He hadn’t failed. He’d pulled off a victory in a winless game. He’d masterminded everything and played us both. That didn’t matter anymore though, and anyway, he’d done right by us. Because reeling in our losses, Jughead and I, we got _each other_.

Exactly what we wanted.

_**Fin.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments, kudos, likes, reblogs, ask box questions, messages…for everything - thank you. If you made it here and you’re reading this - thank you. Sincerely and from the bottom of my heart - thank you.
> 
> I am on tumblr: [@jerepars](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/). Let’s be friends! Start a conversation with me anytime. <3
> 
> ([Extended Chapter Notes](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/169614883410/the-con-extended-chapter-notes) \+ [Extras](http://jerepars.tumblr.com/post/169717215380/the-con-extended-chapter-notes))


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